It wasn't on the battlefield that Napoleon lost his war. It was on the wretched roadway.
He decides to break form by not riding the right lane to pass the cars stacked up for the left hand turn when approaching the red light. It's Friday, the last commute of a long week, and some things must fall in naturally. A wait is not always the worst of things. Besides, he hasn't stopped to watch the heat lines radiate from the tops of sunbaked cars in some time; not quite smelling the roses, but akin. Even his right foot which is usually prepared to pivot from one pedal to the other in the blink of an eye is slow to respond during this savored rush hour ride. The gap between his truck and the bumper ahead of him opens up steadily without his boot leaving the brake. Hesitant leisure is taken advantage of yet again as a car rips into the newly formed space.
"Unbelievable," his passenger says along with some colorful expletives.
The statement rolls around in the driver's skull. Not really, he thinks to himself. His uncle used to tell him that the only stupid question is the one you don't ask, but there are some conversations not worth the breath spent; that is, until, the right nerve is pinched.
A prison warden's grin spreads in the rear-view mirror of the offending party, the one that says "You're mine, I've got the better of you." Nerve pinched. Mood altered. Tongue unleashed.
The driver tosses what's left of his butt after taking one more drag. It bounces within inches of his new intended target, a precursor of the barrage to come.
"But in this guy's case it's understandable," he says while exhaling the last of his menthol. "He's clearly over-compensating for something in his shorts with the jet black Mustang convertible. Middle-aged, bald spot, poor driving etiquette. Take a look at that yellow ID badge hanging from his mirror. He feels the need to advertise what his life's amounted to. I can read the word 'SUPERVISOR' from ten feet away."
The Mustang creeps ahead a few feet. Its driver must feel the sting.
"And get a load of that vanity plate," the sobering orator states with conviction as the newly revealed lower portion of the sports car incriminates ever onward. "The man has the audacity to proclaim himself the 'NIGHTOWL' as if his position in middle management wasn't enough of an ego boost. There he is, waiting for the sun to set so he can swoop in on God-knows-what. The man needs help."
It's clear the rant is over. His passenger turns his head forty-five degrees, almost afraid to lock eyes with his rudely awakened cohort, and comments. "You just summed up thirty years of therapy in thirty seconds. That guy's a prick."
"It wasn't rocket science. It takes one to know one. He's a cliche on wheels."
As the light turns green all three men are propelled forward into whatever awaits the rest of their weekends: questions from women that can't be easily answered, lingering headaches for various reasons, a few bottles in which to hide. Monday morning will prove that it still isn't over. The blue collar boogie passes the time, but he rightfully observes for a living.
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