A Tale of Highway Revenge in Eastern Iowa
I do not advocate violence. I do not condone actual road rage. I am not an angry person. That being said, I find great joy when I can issue some much needed comeuppance to a belligerent, crazy, needlessly aggressive driver.
Just the other day, I was making the northbound trek on 380 from Tiffin. I'm in the left hand (fast) lane somewhere around the Swisher exit, when a man driving a red truck started closing the gap between my taillights and his front bumper, rather quickly. I eased the brakes to signal him to stop tailgating me, so he tried to drive into my trunk. I sped up to open the distance, he sped up to match and keep the quarters tight.
Should I have moved to the right-hand lane and let him pass me? Probably. But he wanted to be a jerk about it...so I didn't. Just when my frustration was getting hard to avoid, I saw something up ahead, and I knew what I was going to do. It was going to be so sweet.
A big silver trailer studded with holes leaving a trail of feathers was lumbering down the highway in the right lane. Here was my chance to show Timmy Tailgator exactly what kind of petty, passive-aggressive person I can be.
I pulled up beside the chicken truck like everything was normal, Mr. Red Truck still inches behind my car as if in tow. As soon the nose of my car was in the same plane as the truck's, I let my foot off the gas and matched my speed to the hen hauler.
Homedude was trapped...and angry... and now getting covered in feathers and chicken stink. I could see his face getting as red as his truck. Arms flailing. Obscenities flying. Horn a-beeping. Meanwhile, I'm in my calm collected world, sipping coffee, jamming some tunes, and looking in my rearview mirror every few seconds to watch a man come apart at the seams because some a-hole from Louisiana won't get out of his way. We rode like that all the way to Highway 30 when he had to slow down to get around the truck so he could exit.
And what did I do then? I sped up, of course. No sense going that slow in the fast lane. As I whipped around the truck, I made eye contact with him as he was exiting. He knew he had been beaten. I could see it on his face. He was road worn and weary over a fifteen-minute interlude on the interstate.
I hope that maybe he learned a lesson in safety, but I doubt it, considering he took both hands off the steering wheel to make sure I saw all the middle fingers he had.