I hope he blows the tranny.

One of three unfortunate things are more likely
to happen in the last couple miles of your drive home:
you get into an accident, as statistics show;
nature calls harder, as if your body knows it's close;
or some sword-swallower in front of you rides the brake.

Tonight, as I'm sure you've guessed, the third one occurred.

I was on my way home from welding class at eight o'clock.
Only one more traffic light separated me from my driveway.
The home-stretch was about to be victorious.
Then said expletive pulled out in front of me.

What's with people? Why cut someone off
if you plan on going slower than them?
And I'm talking a good ten miles-an-hour slower.
This particular roadblock with wheels
happened to be the same make as my vehicle.
That's another peculiar phenomenon--
I tend to get even more perturbed with a bad driver
who's behind the wheel of a car made by the same
company as mine, as if they're breaking some
silent fraternal code by killing the mojo
of a fellow rice-burner-owning motorist.

Anyway, it was painful to be stuck behind
this brake-riding so-and-so all of a sudden.
The gap between our vehicles closed gradually
until I was finally only one car-length away
from his puny little bumper.
I swore I noticed him slow down even more
to a mere twenty-three miles-per-hour.
I decided to find out if my assessment was correct
by turning on my high-beams, which must've
been designed for hunting kangaroo at night
in the vast plains of the Australian outback
because the damn things are so bright
that I can practically see through
the backs of people's skulls
when using them as a weapon
in a case such as the one encountered tonight.
Sure enough, when I turned them puppies on
Captain Party-Pooper in front of me
stepped on his brake pedal and brought
things to a damn-near screeching hault.
Hook, line, and sadly unoriginal sinker!
We had a game on our hands.

I turned the brights off.
He sped back up to only ten miles under the limit.
I turned them back on.
He slowed back down again.
I flashed them a few times.
He turned his rear-view mirror down so it didn't bother him.
I turned them off.
He sped back up a little.
This went on for a mile or two, much to the chagrin
of the line of traffic growing behind me.
I didn't care, though.
Neither did he.
I was having a good time.
Maybe he was, too.
Not once did I lean on the horn.
Believe it or not I was laughing.
Hey, the guy in front of me
was responding in exactly the same way
that I would if I were him.
It was hard to hate the man for that.
Hell, I had a borderline genius on my hands!

When we finally crawled through that last traffic light
and I knew that he couldn't brake-check me anymore
I let him have it one last time, just to get the last word.
He tried to impede my acceleration again, but it was too late
since I'd already turned onto my nice, empty road.

It was good to be home.
It still is, an hour-and-a-half later as I sit rehashing this
mildly amusing story that really had no consequence
or point, though I hope that somewhere further
up Route 52 there's a man smiling as he tells
someone a story about this jerk he had behind him tonight...