Sunday, January 31, 2010

Douchebag in the Headlights

How many of us have ever thrown rocks at a car? Be honest here. I know I have. Multiple times. I even got caught doing it once. I lived on Golf Club Road when it happened and I had to be all of 10 years old or so. The gentleman whose car I hit, slammed on his breaks, threw it in reverse and backed the 50 or so feet up to me and my accomplices and started yelling. He then demanded to know where we lived - Being a pretty smart kid, I didn't tell him because that's just not the information that you give out to strangers. He figured it out of course when I ran away and straight through my front yard and into my house.

I think I used the "I didn't hit his car, Dad!" defense. If I recall correctly, I didn't get in trouble for that one. you know, in all semi-honesty, I'm not even sure that I hit this dude's car with my rocks.

As most of you know, Nashville got "dumped on" with all of 4 inches of snow this weekend. For my Michiganders, don't laugh. 4 inches of snow in the south is like getting 18 in the MItten. Roads become largely impassable and the idiots folks that are out driving are moving at one-third the posted speed limit. If I didn't drive a gigantic Ford E-350 van on Saturdays for work, this by and large would not affect me. But I do so it does. And it seems to me that the the more snow that falls, the dumber people tend to get. This is a universal truth.

Late last night, I cleaned up a wedding at The Hermitage Hotel downtown. Yes, I used the shop van to do it. No, it's not as unwieldy as one might imagine but it's a bit tricky. I managed to make it there and back again [just like Bilbo!] only because I am an excellent employee and every wedding cleanup that I do gets me that much closer to visiting the Shire [this is where I would put a picture of Hobbitton in Matamata, New Zealand, but I am living on borrowed internet and don't want to wait for it to load... You've got access to Google. You can find it.].

I dropped off the van, got back into The Family Truckster and headed home. I turned right out the parking lot behind the shop and drove down Wedgewood only to encounter a gaggle of drunk people trying to cross the street from Cabana. I don't know if "gaggle" is the correct word to use for a collection of drunk people but I'm running with it. There were about ten of them or so and all but one decided that they would dart out in front of my car before I got there. They must have known that I am a semi-professional driver and have had the intuition that I would be able to avoid them. Yup... All but one of them ran across the street before I got there.

But there was the one that didn't decide to run. In every group that goes 'out' in Nashville, there's always one dude that wears a long-sleeved plaid shirt tucked into his blue jeans and a camouflage hat. I've professed my disdain for this outfit before and in the past it had been solely based on the shouts of "Hey, babe! Bring me another Miller Lite and a shot a' Yegger!" [I know... It's not spelled that way but we live in a world where phonics and networking trump intelligence and I don't want to insult the dumb redneck demographic that reads this blog.]

I saw something out of the corner of my eye as I eased my way down Wedgewood and thoughts of being ten years old and throwing rocks at cars flashed through my head. A mighty CRASH of ice and snow met my windshield. Douchebag McMismatchedOutfit had heaved a mighty iceball that landed smack dab on my car. If ever there were a time to display my incomparable winter driving skills and simultaneously scare the living shit out of a southerner, this was it. I slammed on brakes, pulled up the E-brake, and cut the wheel to the left as hard as I could, sending me spinning into a perfect 180 and facing Douchebag McMismatchedOutfit who had decided to cross the street at this time.

If ever I saw a 'deer in the headlights' look, this was it. The irony that he was wearing a camouflage baseball cap was not lost on me. I felt like a total bad ass and knew that I wasn't really going to do anything to this guy because his nine friends were already standing in their parents' yard the bank parking lot across the street but would have rushed their way back over to intervene. And I'll be damned if I'm gonna get the piss taken out of me by ten dudes; some of whom I'm betting were carrying a gun because packin' a piece in a bar in Nashville is legal.

I sat there for a few seconds and just revved my 2.3 litre engine. And then I felt it against my right elbow: the cold piece of hickory nestled firmly between my center console and passenger seat. My Louisville Slugger. A completely sardonic thought ran through my head and before I knew it, I had opened my door and pointed my bat in his direction.

I have never felt more like a jackass and a bad ass at the same time in my life... While trying not to smile.

Have you ever seen someone completely unfamiliar with ice try to run on it? More specifically, have you ever seen someone completely drunk and completely unfamiliar with ice try to run on it? 'Cause I have. And there Douchebag McMismatchedOutfit went... Face first onto the snow and ice. This was met with a chorus of laughter from his group of friends... and me as well. I thought that was punishment enough because it's going to be the kind of story the next time that guy goes to Cabana with any of his friends, someone in the group will tell the "Listen to what this dumbass did..." story.

To my poorly dressed friend: you deserved it.
To my poorly dressed friend's friends: tell this story at every opportunity you get.
To my dad: thanks for buying me that baseball bat when I was 8. It still serves a purpose.

1 comment:

pull the mctrigger