Some stories must be told. Though some people would rather not hear them.
There’s a school of thought: if you don’t talk about ‘bad stuff’ it’ll vanish. Trust me, it won’t. A time comes when one must face the truth. Particularly when it smacks you in the eye with a sharp stick.
True stories, like this one, aren’t meant to vilify. Nor endorse fear. They’re a means to understand. The rage, the violence, the hate that brews inside the flesh, the mind, the core of man, can erupt any time. And, until it happens to you, you haven’t a clue the trauma it can create.
Yesterday was a lovely day. Sunny. Pleasant to the senses. Birds sang, A perfumed breeze blew, it caressed my check. Traffic on my narrow two lane road was serene. My little gray Yuris was happy as a saddle horse on a morning ride through Central Park. I dropped mail off at a neighbors box, crossed the one lane bridge, and braked at the sign at the top of the hill. I signaled to turn right.
Suddenly, from the left, a four door gray sedan whipped’round a sharp corner and stopped within inches, as far as I could tell, from my driver’s side door. Had it hit me, my little car would have flipped. To my left I was looking through the front window of the car. I gasped, tried to grin–stuff happens– and gestured the driver, a blank countenance behind the windshield a few feet away and opened my palm to gesture he back so I could safely traverse a right and continue on my way.
Thus began an incident so surreal, I’m still shaken thinking about it.
The driver shook his head, so I gestured again. The head shook ‘no’ and a woman–she spoke–jumped out her side and shouted, “It’s your fault. You’re over the double line.” She crawled back inside. The driver, obviously a man, had nearly collided with me. I wasn’t able to judge the distance between the cars so when the driver rolled down his window I asked, politely, “Back up, please.”
With that he jumped out of his car, loomed large outside my window breathing down on me. Then, thrusting his fist through my open window, grabbed the steering wheel.
What saved me was a car with three passengers–I think I counted– one tall young man came immediately to my aid, “Are you okay?” I shook my head.
Another young man spoke to the driver, suggesting he back. This one came to my window and stood between me and the driver. He helped me navigate the corner. “Have a good day,” the tall one said. “You, too, ” I replied. Behind us the driver, in the middle of the road, was screaming obscenities.
I want to thank the young men. Hope their day was good.
My bad trip was balanced with three good ones. That’s Kauai.
But I don’t know what to make of it. Do you?