Road Rage


We'd just gotten frozen yogurt. Our treat. Our comfort food. I pulled out into busy, Christmas-time, evening traffic. He suddenly flashed in my rear view mirror and then shot around my car stopping at an angle in front of us, trapping us with his off kilter, middle-of-the road parking job in front, the median to the left, and a steady stream of traffic to the right. He leapt out of his older SUV looking disheveled with wild salt and pepper hair and a Hawaiian shirt stretched tight over his large belly, it's cheerfulness in stark contrast to his hostile body language and hate-filled facial expression. I rolled down my window a couple of inches. “You almost hit me. Pull over. I'm calling the cops. I got it all on dash-cam.” “No, I'm not going to do that,” I said calmly. I rolled up my widow, pulled around his car at my first opportunity, and set out on the 10 mile journey home. Is he following us? No, I think that's a different car. No one would do that. I nervously drove, glancing frequently in the rear view mirror, as my 13 year old daughter cried and asked question after question. Why did he do that? Did you do something wrong? Is he on drugs, mom? I gave the best answers I could, our yogurt, uneaten, growing soupy in the little paper cups. As we pulled into my parent's drive to pick up my younger daughter, I saw him park along the street. Now he has an address. I handed my cell phone to my daughter and told her to call 911 on speaker as I backed out and headed to the neighborhood fire station. When we parked, he pulled up tight behind us, pinning us in. According to the 911 dispatcher, I had committed a hit and run. A lie. I rolled down the window and called for help. Fire fighters were outside and approached as police rounded the corner having already been dispatched to my address by way of my license plate number. I told my story and he told his. I remained calm, articulate, and reasonable. I had no choice. My daughter was watching and listening. Vehicles were inspected. No damage. No surprise. His dash-cam footage was reviewed with no wrong-doing on my part discovered. “Go home, ma'am. He's not dangerous. He's just an idiot.” But how can I be sure?

Huson, Montana, USA. I am a family physician turned stay-at-home mom and blogger at My husband and I have two teenage daughters and recently moved from the city to rural Montana.

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