I was driving on the freeway the other day in my minivan listening to a haiku podcast when a tiny Smart car passed me on the left. I glanced over at the car as it passed and saw the driver reach his hand to the rear window and give me the finger. There was nothing subtle about it—he put his middle finger up and thrust his hand towards me and held it there more than long enough for me to notice. I was shocked, of course, and puzzled as I wondered what on earth I might have done to piss the guy off. I hadn’t changed lanes for several miles, so I couldn’t have cut him off. As he sped off down the freeway, he left me contemplating, with an amused smile on my face, the various things that could have caused his anger. Was it that I was driving a gas-guzzling minivan? Or could it be the Obama bumper sticker? I shrugged my shoulders and laughed, glad in a way for a break in the day’s routine.
the drive home—
lyrics I didn’t know