Welcome to "Transient Tuesdays"...I am glad that you decided to stop by! Have a seat, kick up your feet and enjoy this week's post from The Pregnant Wine-O. Wines Constantly is an awesome blog - I think you should follow her here - and I am thrilled that she shared her story of finger flags, MHD and her poor beat-up hubster!
Remember all those warnings from your parents about how you should never give rude drivers the middle finger salute because they might be nutso and have a gun and shoot you dead? And how your mother may have told you to never (everEVERever) leave the house without the pepper spray keychain she bought you? Well, this is a story about why you should listen to your parents, even if the other guy is unarmed. Because he might be crazy. And drunk. With anger control issues. You get the picture.
One bright and sunny day, my hubs (then boyfriend) and I were weaving through the parking lot of some giant strip mall extravaganza after purchasing some new bedding. We will call my hubs D. At this time, D was going through a phase (which has since become permanent) where he got a teeny bit mad at the sight of suburbanites driving giant gas-guzzlers for silly errands like a trip to the BB&B. Just call him an Environmental Crusader. This anger manifested in his middle finger, which he waved at any and all of these vehicles on the road. On this particular day, D's finger flag absentmindedly waved at a white Hummer passing us from the opposite direction. We drove on. I patted his leg, then glanced out the window to try and see what was up with the tire squealing behind us.
This is where things get interesting.
See, the squealing tires belonged to the white Hummer, which at this point had turned itself around and was gunning full steam ahead for the back of our teeny tiny 2-door impracticality of a car. D, completely oblivious to my silent shock and horror, pulls slowly up to a stop sign, looks both ways, and then jumps out of his skin as Maniac Hummer Driver (MHD) rams into the back of our car. MHD backs up. And slams into us again. WTF. At this point D is still trying to process things, and I'm ass-up in the air trying to find my cell phone in the depths of the Biggest Purse Ever (which of course has half-spilled all over my feet). Clearly, we were about to die and I at least wanted the police to have a shot at catching up to the freak who is about to flatten our car into a twisty metal pancake. MHD has now climbed down from his throne, and is cursing at D. D is looking shell shocked. I locate my phone. I forget to call 9-1-1 and begin to look for my pepper spray. Which should be attached to my keychain.
Why isn't it there?
MHD is now yelling even more profane things at D, and I forget what I'm looking for as the first fist hits poor D in the side of the face. D's glasses go flying somewhere into the backseat. MHD has his arms hooked to D's arms and is trying to yank him out of the partially open window. D opens the door and gets out. MHD throws more punches. I'm seeing spots, and finally remember what to do with the phone. I inform the operator that a crazy madman is trying to kill my boyfriend. I attempt to describe our location, but it goes more or less like this: "We're by the home stuff store, the one by the Applebee's. Or the Bennigan's? I can't see the sign. And the camera store. By the stop sign. In xxnameoftownxx." About as helpful as it sounds.
I babble more nonsense and start searching the glovebox for the pepper spray as D just stands there covering his head with his arms. Not fighting back. The lawyer in him. His shirt is ripped. There's blood. I begin to yell unintelligible things about being mfing-crazy and stop hitting him you a**hole and why don't they put address numbers on any of the stores?!?
MHD gets back into his Hummer. Spins around and starts driving away. D chases after him. I get out of the car and chase after D. I am wearing 3-inch (pointy) heels. By now, the 9-1-1- operator is surely debating whether to send the police or a straight jacket. I babble more gobbledygook, 99% of it profanities, as I alternate between screaming at D to "Get the F*** back here", screaming at MHD to stop trying to run D over, and begging the 9-1-1- operator to send some GD backup, already.
The police finally show up. D wobbles back to me. Thankfully in one piece. A second police car (all of that screaming and they only send 2 cars?) stops MHD on the other side of the parking lot.
We all make a trip to the police station. MHD in handcuffs. We learn he tested quite drunk. Statements are given. Charges are pressed. D looks like hell, and I still can't find my damn pepper spray.
The whole thing went court. Apparently we drew quite the crowd of witnesses. MHD was assigned anger management counseling. I still have nightmares that he hunts us down and clubs D and I to death in our sleep. All over a freaking finger.
Keep your middle finger to yourself. Unless you have a black belt or drive a tank or wear kevlar like it's hot.
Pepper spray cannot save you when it is hiding at home in your sock drawer.