“HURRY THE FUCK UP, COME ON NOW I DON’T HAVE ALL DAY!” my mom yelled as I slowly put my head down in shame. I usually try to take the bus to school, or get my dad to drive me, but unfortunately today I overslept, and my only means of transportation was my road raging mother. Great.
Everyone avoids being passengers in my moms’ car; they know by the time they get out they’ll need an Advil, and a bag to put over their heads. The funny thing is, after all of the arguments she had with complete strangers on the road she still doesn’t understand why. She blames it on the other people as if she’s the innocent one. Denial. She’s in denial.
“Mom! Calm down, she was in a wheelchair. What did you expect her to do? Race across the street before the light turned green?”
“I’m calm, why are you yelling at me?” my dear mother asked completely missing my point. Her hearing must be working in opposite directions, because she always thinks everyone is yelling at her, and not the other way around.
“GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY WAY YOU FUCKING IDIOT! Did you just see that? He didn’t even have his blinkers on!”
She must be blind too, because that driver did have his blinkers on.
By the fifth raging complaint, which I would think exceeded 200 decibels, I dozed off into contemplation. I began to play psychologist inside my head. I attempted to analyze my mother, and why she is so angry on the road. My dad is pretty quiet. My siblings and I are very composed. Even our dog barely barks. What’s my mom’s deal? Is she just impatient? Is she going through menopause? Did she have a traumatic experience while driving once? Is she just taking out all of her anger on strangers because she can’t vent to anyone at home?
My mom barely has gray hair. You would think after all of the yelling she does in the car she’d at least be half gray haired. Maybe she is happy. Maybe she enjoys yelling obscenities at people! Maybe that’s why she is always the first to offer to drive us places.
Finally, after 15 minutes I saw a glimpse of my school up the block. As we neared the school there were still some students hanging outside; I noticed the popular kids, and hoped that nothing would happen in these last two minutes in the car to get my mom agitated. As I was zippering my jacket my mom suddenly braked, and screeched to a halt. Uh oh.
“HEY YOU! YOU SHOULD REALLY WATCH WHERE YOU’RE GOING NEXT TIME! I ALMOST RAN YOU OVER!”
As I slowly looked up… right in front of me… like a deer in headlights… was Pete. My crush. The guy who is in five out of seven of my classes. The guy who was crossing the street to greet his friends, those popular kids.
It was too late to duck. It was too late to do anything. He saw me, and he especially heard her.
“Thanks mom,” I said traumatically yet rapidly getting out of the car.
“Do you want me to pick you up after school?” she asked as I began to walk.
I pretended I didn’t hear her.
