RAGE

A vehicular dispute.

I was heading to a yoga class, dressed in a short spandex unitard with a white headband that always makes me look impossibly sweet, when an Escalade cut me off, honking in one long, continuous blare as it did so. Arrows on the road beneath us had indicated a merging lane, and as such, I flicked on my blinker and began to merge slowly, elegantly (correctly). I was in the lead—I had the right of way as ordained by law, by common decency, by God, but the driver of that dirty metal behemoth determined it was best practice to accelerate, winning the drag race I never agreed to and nearly crashing into my car.

I glimpsed the man for only a moment—early forties, dark eyes, thinning hair, anywhere between fair and olive-skinned. He was Greek or maybe Peruvian or possibly Russian or even Italian. This classification was important because I needed a reference point—an idea to draw from as I worked to memorize every available detail of his physicality, but it was difficult to tell in the heat of the moment. Regardless, his racially ambiguous face was contorted in anger as he passed me and shouted something inaudible. I could feel the venom of his words even without understanding them, but worst of all, he shook his head in disapproval as if I—and not he—was the most imbecilic, inconsiderate piece of garbage ever to operate a motor vehicle (I felt that this perception was not helped by the white headband that always makes me look impossible sweet, or in this case, potentially, ditsy and unformidable).

I deduced that he had been ignorant of his surroundings—he had not glimpsed the white arrows conjoining our two pathways and so believed that I had just casually, unnecessarily decided to encroach upon his territory. In answer (and in defiance of my headband), I held down my own horn, screwed up my own racially ambiguous face, and screamed at the top of my lungs.

“IT’S A MERGING LANE! MERGING LANE!”

He couldn’t hear me. This was devastating for some reason—I needed him to feel my rage. I needed him to be afraid. My hands shook as I gripped the wheel, and my right foot accelerated to tail the perpetrator’s car without the participation of my rational mind.

“Slow down—it’s not worth hitting him. You’d be at fault,” my rational mind warned.

“Fault?” My right foot spat, burning rubber. “I’m the problem when this man clearly thinks he can just intimidate those around him into submission? I’m supposed to just give in and let him believe the rules of the world don’t apply to him?”

“Let’s try some Ujjayi yogic breathing,” my headband interjected “Inhale, let your breath rasp over the back of your throat until it sounds like the ocean…”

Foot, mind, and headband continued to do battle while the rest of me stared into the dark expanse of the Escalade’s rear window. I wanted him to see me.

I tried to fix my face with the most unsettling expression possible. Something that said, “I might follow you home and park in the shadows outside. I might return each day, observing and recording your habits. I might do nothing for weeks or even months. I might start jogging by at the perfect moment in my short spandex unitard with a white headband that always makes me look impossibly sweet. I might orchestrate a meet-cute and suggest we go out for coffee sometime. I might present a version of myself that feels like a breath of fresh air—like the girl of your dreams. I might convince you to let your walls down and accept my attentive care after so many years spent single and alone. I might provide a kind of support you’ve never experienced before, especially given the strained relationship you’ve always had with your mother. I might rearrange your furniture, your closet, your lifestyle in a way that shifts your whole worldview for the better. I might charm your friends and colleagues and even your mother despite the strained relationship you’ve always had with her. I might convince you to get a dog together. I might cause you to rethink your goals and ambitions and consider the importance of settling down. I might inspire you to propose marriage after some time spent living together in relative harmony. I might plan the perfect, tasteful ceremony—just a small gathering of friends and family. I might say ‘I do’ and make you the happiest man on earth. I might be the perfect wife, so perfect you sometimes feel sorrowful just looking at me—just imagining all the years you spent without me. I might become pregnant. I might begin to glow with new life and become more beautiful than you ever thought possible. I might take excellent care of myself and your unborn child, attending prenatal exercise classes and playing Mozart for my belly. I might catch you watching me as I sunbathe in the garden on a picnic blanket, my stomach—and its inhabitant—rising and falling with every breath. I might ask to borrow your car one afternoon for an errand. I might bring our dog with me. I might blow you a kiss farewell through the windshield as you stand on the front porch, watching me. I might reverse straight back, down the attached driveway in front of our home, before shifting into drive. I might take a deep breath and say a prayer before ramming your dirty, massive piece of shit Escalade through the front wall and into our living room with a terrible, resounding boom that our neighbors will remember for years to come. I might feel at peace as the car bursts into flames and you rush to the window. I might smile as you desperately pull at the locked door, frantically demanding answers—‘Why? Why have you done this!?’ I might use my last modicum of strength before the inferno consumes everything you love in this world to bellow, ‘IT WAS A MERGING LANE! Can you hear me now? MERGING LANE!’”

Octavia Spencer as Sue Ann - Ma (2019)