“Sending out an S.O.S. Sending out an S.O.S…”
“…I hope that someone gets my message in a bottle…”
I crank up the old Police song on my radio as I sit in bumper-to-bumper traffic.
God I hate it here.
Only in New York does a twenty-minute commute take you over an hour. The sounds of the honking horns set me on edge. I clench my teeth, once again wishing I had one of those George Jetson cars so I could fly up and away from the blacktop jungle.
The car in front of me finally starts to move. Eager to leave my freeway parking spot, I tap the gas lightly, only to have to slam on the brakes seconds later as the blindingly yellow sports car, that was just “parked” next to me, swerves into the miniscule space between my car and the giant SUV, which is in front of me.
I hear something snap inside of me. All I can see is red and my eyes zoom in like a rifle sight on the driver of the sports car. Of course he’s talking on their cell phone and smoking a cigarette at the same time.
My vision is becoming hazy as the windows fog up from the steam that is coming out of my ears. I throw the car into park and rummage under the passenger seat. I find what I’m searching for. My greedy little hand closes around the smooth wooden base of a Louisville Slugger.
Bat in hand I throw open my door and storm up to the driver’s side of the obnoxious little sports car. Upon noticing me, the driver, typical midlife crisis looking kind of guy, drops his cigarette out of the corner of his mouth. I take delight in seeing it burn a nice neat hole in his expensive looking suit pants.
I flash him my biggest brightest smile and swing with all my might, taking his side mirror right off. His eyes grow wide and watery.
Please let him break down crying. That would totally make my day.
I move towards the front of the car to start working on the headlights. I hear him fumble with the door as he tries to get out to stop me. I smash in one of the expensive headlights with glee.
I’m sure I must look manic by now, but I love it!
I turn to look at the driver before destroying the next headlight. The sweat is glistening on his balding head and he suddenly falls to his knees.
“Please! I beg you to stop! I’m so sorry I cut you off! Please forgive me!” he cries.
I gloat in the fact that I’ve reduced a grown man to tears and begging. I slowly walk over to the man, the bat swinging by my side. I raise the bat over my head to deliver a final blow and…
“PLEASE LADY, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, DRIVE!”
The angry yell snaps me out of my “oh so pleasant” daydream. I shake my head to regain my senses and continue the game of stop-go.
I hate this place. I wish someone would get my S.O.S.