clavus

I did not know the people at the light ahead were super duper crazy, loud and evil….but I soon found out.

A block away, a crappy little Ford idled at the green light. We were the only two cars on the road, and we were both in the left lane. I closed in on the motionless car, steered a slow, languid lane change and passed on the right just as the car began to drive forward. I pulled a smooth left back into my lane, then executed a quick left onto a side street, and up into the Starbucks drive-through.

My vehicular navigation was smooth, unhurried and not in the least dangerous. It was one of the rare times when I was not driving like an asshole. Unfortunately, the occupants of the car I passed did not see things this way. To them, I had committed the unforgivable sin – I took cuts. They were now one car-length further from their double, fu-fu mochachinos.

They flew up behind me in the drive-through as I idled behind a large, American 4-door. A crazy brunet leapt from the passenger side, ran through the landscaping and got right in my befuddled face. She swore. She swore a lot. She swore about how I had cut her off, swore about getting run off the road, and swore about her endangered her child.

So I did what I do any time a crazy woman yells at me. I apologized.

"I’m sorry" is free. "I’m sorry" is simple. Even if you don’t mean it, "I’m sorry" can prevent things from getting out of hand. "I’m sorry" is considerable less complex than getting into a fight with a lunatic in a West Sacramento Starbucks. "I’m sorry" seemed like my best bet.

But "I’m sorry" didn’t cut it with Crazy Lady. She swore some more. She swore that she was calling the cops. Go ahead. I did what I always do when I hear nonsense. I tuned her out. And as Crazy Lady continued to shout things (I know not what), I took a look in my rearview.

Sure enough, there was a little kid in the car. There was a strange-looking old man at the wheel who must have had 30 years on her. A father? A grandpa? Who can say? Crazy Lady gave up and stomped back through the carefully planted, drought-tolerant landscaping. Then Wierd Guy took over.

Weird Guy might have been 50. But he had a few facial piercings that I rarely associate with the over-40 crowd. He might have been 25, with the last five of those trips around the sun dedicated to the consumption of methamphetamines. It was probably the later.

He yelled at me for a while. He was going to kick my ass. He was going to fuck me up. I was a no-good this-and-that. He and his companion shared a real way with words. As near as I can tell, the child in the back seat was not yet old enough to join them.

Crazy Lady got out a pen and a cell phone. She jabbed the pen toward me as she yelled into the phone. Weird Guy pretended like he was going to jump out of the car. He did these quick, start-to-open-the-door moves. Was I supposed to flinch? What did these people want out of this? Was she really calling the cops? Did they want us to exchange blows amidst Ceanothus and Amaryllis belladonna?

And how bad would it suck to be that kid in the back?

As we inched ever so slowly forward, I thought more and more about the kid. Clearly, his lot was not a happy one. Did he have to spend his days with Crazy Lady and Weird Guy? Or was he the product of even more deranged guardians - people so screwed up that they thought letting Crazy Lady and Weird Guy watch the kid was a good idea?

Ten, fifteen minutes this went on. Finally, I got to the window and paid for my mocha. And before the chipper little girl at the window could give me my change, I knew what I had to do.

“I’ll pay for their order too.” I said, gesturing to the car behind me. “I think they’re having a rough day.”

I said “they” but I was referring to the kid. Maybe those two would be so broadsided by a random act of kindness that they would change their tune. Maybe that kid was surrounded by happiness for a few minutes…or at least silence.

Maybe.

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