Honking Mad

The worst drivers in the country this year are here in New York City, according to GMAC Insurance's annual National Driver Test. And as a recently transplanted Texan, who drives a variation of box trucks and sometimes a Honda Element for work, I concur. The drivers here are God awful. They stop in the intersection. They stop in the middle of the road. They stop when they're supposed to go and they go when they're supposed to stop. They cut people off. They slam on their brakes. Then they speed off. They don't use their blinkers when they're supposed to, then they leave them on and they never turn. They move to the right lane, then back to the left lane, then back to the right, then back to the left lane again, all in a futile attempt to gain one car length in a never ending traffic jam. And they honk. They honk, and they honk, and they honk! And still, they don't get anywhere.
The traffic I can handle – most days – if I simply pretend that I don't care if I ever get where I'm going. The honking, on the other hand, becomes nerve rattling, especially when I'm sleeping at three o' clock in the morning and some frustrated drivers blaring horn wakes me up from the street below. Bleary eyed and confused as to why I'm being honked at in my bed I fall back to sleep dreaming that the City of New York has put me in charge of enforcing the no honking law. The rest of the night I weave through streets in my little traffic scooter slapping tickets on the windshields of transgressors. And I am happy. I am very happy.
I try to refrain from using my horn as much as possible when I'm driving. But sometimes I just can't help it, like at the end of a long day when a mini van dragging a felafel cart behind it swerves across three lanes of traffic to cut me off. That's usually when I lose it and blast the guy with my horn, then tailgate him for a good block or so while flipping him the bird. That exact scenario usually happens daily.
But I'm getting used to it all and gradually settling in as a New Yorker in the process. I read a quote in New York magazine not to long ago in my therapists waiting area (yeah I need therapy after driving in this City) by the comedian Dennis Leary about what makes someone a real New Yorker. He said something to the effect that if the pope mobile cut a real New Yorker off in traffic he'd flip him the bird. I've recently mastered a technique of honking and flipping the bird at the same that I'd use on the pope in a heartbeat if he tried to pull that on me.
Yeah, I'm settling in.

NY Die

The realization that I can’t do another day in New York City hit me like an electric cattle prod to the gut today.
At 7:45 something is incessantly beeping at me trying to get my attention. Why is my alarm going off? I’m not working today. Oh yeah. My girlfriend brought a van home from work last night and asked if I could move it this morning before eight so that it didn’t get ticketed.
Fuck.
I get up, throw my clothes on and drive around the neighborhood for a half an hour bargaining with Christ to help find a parking place. I spot something. A little close to the fire hydrant. But it’ll work.
Back home and back in bed for minute.
Not long enough.
The girlfriend’s alarm is going off. Gotta get up get going. Gotta drop the girlfriend off at an appointment, then drop the van off at the rental place. We throw our clothes on. Coffee. Out the door.
Van’s got a ticket. Too close to the fire hydrant. Fuck. Ticket says that vehicle must be five feet away from hydrant. I’m four feet eleven and three quarter inches. I spout a turrets syndrome style rant at Jesus and the New York City meter maids.
Girlfriend tells me it’s okay.
Woman in car in front of us at the intersection is talking on her phone. Light turns green. I blow my horn. “Come on!” Girlfriend tells me to chill out. I tell her I’m fine. An van on the bridge nearly blows us into the river.
I let it go.
I’m a perfect little Buddha as we creep through bumper to bumper Manhattan traffic until the old man in front of us sits through an entire green light, then blows through the red. I hold my tongue and horn. I start cussin’ under my breath. I am the calm inside the storm. I drop girlfriend off at therapists office. I can cut loose with my verbal abuse. In the fifteen minutes that it takes me to get to the rental place these exact phrases come out of my mouth: “Are you a fucking moron?!”; “Jesus, you’re fucking retarded!”; “You stupid dildo bitch!”; “Are you fucking shitting me?”; “Sure come on. Just stop traffic while your fat ass walks across the street.”; “I will fucking kill all of you! I will run you down!”
I feel a little better.
Drop the van off.
Need some fresh air.
Walking…
Crossing street cab driver cuts me off then stops. Control self and don’t kick in windshield like Bruce Lee. Think I need a drink. Too early in the morning. Not a good idea. Guy walking down the street in front of me moving slowly, oblivious to the rest of the world. Make my move on the left to pass him up. He swerves, cuts me off. I swerve to the right. He cuts me off. Fucking asshole! I move to the left. He cuts me off again. God!
I surrender…
Meet girlfriend. She asks me what’s wrong. Nothin’. I’m fine. She presses and I go into a rant about how people who cross the street when they have a red hand signal fuck up the whole flow of foot traffic for the mass of people who are crossing going the other way, thus causing a cluster fuck on the corner of the sidewalk, creating pandemonium and chaos. My girlfriend looks into my eyes searching for remnants of sanity as a red hand crossing guy’s backpack smacks my shoulder. I’m gonna fuckin’ go postal on someone… My girlfriend starts laughing. I tell her that I can’t take another fucking day in this town. Which works out perfect, because we’re goin’ to home to Texas for the holidays tomorrow.