Road Rage by Brian Belefant

In my defense, I woke up that morning, and my finger hurt like crap.

And yeah, I know, boo hoo. Hurt finger. Some people don’t have hands.

I don’t give a shit about them. I need my finger. I need all my fingers because you can’t play the violin without fingers, and that day, I needed to play the violin. I was booked for my first gig since Covid, and no, it wasn’t about the money because I have a job teaching music at three different elementary schools, which doesn’t pay great, but makes ends meet, but when you’re a musician, it’s important to actually make music, at least once in a while.

It hurt enough that I didn’t think I’d be able to play that evening, and that evening was important because whoever booked me told Jean Claude that he was requesting me specifically because his wife was enchanted by my performance of Chopin’s Nocturne in C sharp minor.

Enchanted.

When someone specifically calls out a performance you did seven years ago, you take that shit seriously.

Back when Jean Claude started to get arthritis, he told me he went to see this Doctor Omitri, who turned it around in like three hours, so I found the number and called for an appointment.

At first they said they had nothing before June 6th, but I told them it was an emergency and that I was referred by Jean Claude and after they put me on hold for almost ten minutes, whoever answered the phone came back on and asked me my name and I told her and she said they could get me in before the doctor’s first scheduled appointment, but I’d have to be there at 8:30. So I called in sick to work and jumped in the car. Omitri’s practice was on the other side of town, but it was okay because the maps app on my phone said I’d be there by 8:27. But just as I was coming up to the exit for his office, traffic came to a complete stop.

Okay, not complete. But I looked at the maps app on my phone, and it told me that my ETA was now 8:34.

I was in the far right lane, and the exit was coming up, and there was nothing I could do but ride the bumper of the Chevy Cavalier in front of me. And I looked over to my left, and there was this fancy silver Lexus poking its nose between me and the Cavalier.

And I’m thinking, “Fuck, no, asshole! You do not get to merge into my lane!”

I pushed up closer to the ass end of the Cavalier, and I could just feel that the entitled rich guy in the Lexus was annoyed that some loser in a 15-year-old Kia didn’t just fade back so he could get to his golf game or whatever.

It’s times like these that you don’t make eye contact, but I glanced over just to see what kind of douchebag drives a car like that––like I didn’t know already––and it was this guy about five years younger than me, with perfectly coiffed hair, wearing a pink button-down shirt.

He noticed me looking in his direction, and he started to make that face, that fake apologetic face that means, “Oh yeah. Forgot that the exit I need is like a quarter mile up, even though I do this move every single time, skate along in the faster-moving lane and then slide over at the last minute because I’m so fucking clever and oh-so-very important, more important than you,” but I looked away really quick so I didn’t have to be nice and let him in or worse, tell him to go fuck himself, making sure to put on my “I’m paying attention to the road like any responsible driver would” face, which I was, even though we were only going four miles an hour. I mean, I had to, since my front bumper was like seven inches off the back end of the Cavalier.

And I was thinking, yeah, that Lexus sure goes fast, doesn’t it? Four miles an hour, just like the Cavalier and my beat-to-shit Kia. You may be entitled to a fancy new car, but you are not entitled to go any faster than the rest of us.

The maps app said 8:36 arrival now, so I pushed up even closer to the Cavalier, and the lane next to me started going a little faster than this one, and the Lexus was now a half car length ahead of me, and I could see that the Lexus had its turn signal on, hoping that I’d let him in. There was a gap in front of the Cavalier and I knew that Mr. Pink Button-Down Shirt saw it, too, and he was up the ass of the Bronco in front of him, hoping that his lane would move up enough so that he could cut in front of the Cavalier and show me that’s what I get for being a douche and not letting him in because then instead of being just the car in front of me, he’d be two cars in front of me and I was thinking, “Come on, Cavalier! Wake up!”

The Cavalier woke up and closed the gap a little bit, but the lane with the asshole in the Lexus was still moving a quarter of a mile an hour faster than mine and now the Lexus was right next to the Cavalier, blinker still going, and I could see the asshole looking over at the driver of the Cavalier, hoping to get her attention so he could give her an “Oops, my bad” look and she’d be nice and fall back so he could get in in front of her, but I was relieved that I could see that she was talking to the guy in the passenger seat, oblivious to the drama unfolding next to and behind her. Or pretending, maybe, which made me feel even better.

But then everything came to a stop, and we were sitting there, not moving. I looked at my maps app, and it said my ETA was now 8:39. And then 8:40.

When the logjam finally broke, my lane got to move and shithead Lexus’s lane didn’t and next thing you know I was sliding past the motherfucker, right up to where the lane veers off to the exit, and I put my hand out the window and expressed my gleeful vindication with my middle finger as I moved by and started fading to the right, into the exit. But the Tacoma behind me didn’t notice we’d started moving, so the Lexus jammed into the gap behind me and rode up my license plate all the way down the exit to the light.

This guy was such a dick, I just knew he was going to Baja 1000 down the grass just to leapfrog ahead of me to get to the light before me, so I jammed it to the light so he couldn’t, and he didn’t but I guess when you buy a fancy car like that you know the brakes are top-of-the-line and even though I was moving close to 45 miles an hour, it’s like he was glued to my back bumper.

When the light turned green, I hauled ass around the corner. I knew it was two lanes to the next light, where I needed to turn left, so I stayed in the left lane, hoping that the cars facing us across the light would turn right and fill up the right lane so there’d be no way he could pass me on the outside to get to that light ahead of me, and mostly they did, so when the light changed, he stuck to me like a sock to a sweatshirt when you first take it out of the dryer after you forgot to put in one of those anti-static dryer sheets.

At the next light, my maps app said the ETA was down to 8:37, which was better, but not better enough. Still, I was tempted to sit through the green. To wait until the light turned yellow and then blast through, just to fuck with the guy. He totally deserved it. I mean, seriously. Who even wears a pink button-down shirt anymore? That’s like Preppy Handbook shit, from nineteen eighty what? Three?

The light turned green, and I followed the traffic down Lombard, and he was right there behind me, and when I glanced in the rear-view, I could see him making head movements like he was looking for a way to get around me. The car to my right took its time and so I did, too, staying just a tiny bit ahead of it so Lexus guy wouldn’t have the opportunity to move into the right lane in front of it and get to wherever it was so very important for him to be, drinking a $14 cappuccino with his wife’s hot friend or closing the deal on some new business development or whatever.

I figured that when I made the left into the medical complex, he’d go on past and maybe even flip me off back, and that would be that, but when I turned, he turned too. Not only that, but he followed me around the curvy drive past all the other buildings toward the one I was headed for, and now I was starting to get nervous. Did this guy have a grudge he wanted to settle? Was he chasing me down? Seriously?

It takes a special kind of someone to think getting into a fight with the guy who cut you off is going to make for a great story at the country club. Who the fuck did he think he was?

I wished I had my baseball bat in the car. I mean, what if he really wanted to get into it? I hadn’t been in a fight––a real right–– since auditions for the symphony back in ‘99.

I was so distracted by the guy that I almost missed my turn, and when I noticed, I yanked into it and lost him. Guy like that, though, he’d take the first opportunity to turn around and come back for me. I jammed into the parking garage and pulled to a stop in the first spot that came up. I jumped out of the car before he got into the parking lot and hustled into the building and to Dr. Omitri’s office, looking around to make sure Pink Shirt Asshole wasn’t waiting to jump me.

When I got into the waiting room, it was empty except for the receptionist behind the plexiglass panel, and I took a breath. I’m here––yeah, a little late––but I never have to think about Pink Shirt Asshole again.

I went up to the receptionist, and she gave me a smile, and I could feel my blood pressure coming down. I smiled back and said, trying to sound contrite and apologetic, “Yeah, hi. I have an appointment with Doctor Omitri.”

“Mister…?”

“Rutledge.”

“Right. Here you are. Eight thirty.”

“Yeah, sorry. Traffic.” She gave me a smile that looked a little insincere, but at least it was a smile. “Why don’t you have a seat, Mr. Rutledge?”

Just as I turned, the door opened and there he was. Mr. Pink Shirt. I could feel the hair on the back of my neck standing up and my chest starting to push out, but before I could say, “What the fuck is your problem, Asshole?” the receptionist said, “Doctor Omitri.”

“You’re…” I said.

“You must be Mr. Rutledge,” he said. He didn’t sound pissed. Didn’t even sound smug, which was a relief. I guess he didn’t recognize me from the traffic.

“Yeah,” I said, trying to sound normal. This is good, I thought. All he knows is that I’m his first patient. Everything is going to be okay.

“You’re playing at the service tonight,” he said. Guess whoever I talked to on the phone passed along my sob story.

“Yeah. How do you know about that?”

“I hired you.”

“Oh,” I said. What else could I say? “Thank you.” So this was the guy whose wife was enchanted by my performance.

You know how I said the receptionist’s smile was insincere? That smile was warm compared to the one he gave me. Like it was painful for him to make his mouth go that way. And then he added, “My wife’s memorial service,” and he headed for the door that leads back to the examination rooms.

That hit me like a gut punch. I mean, I’m in physical pain, but this?

Here’s a doctor who opened up his schedule to let me in, because he knew that I was supposed to play at his dead wife’s memorial service. He probably rushed to his office to see me. He probably planned not to even charge me for this appointment.

I felt like I needed to do something, to let him know that I understood how much pain he must be in.