and mean and rather vulgar.
About once every few months, I'll be in just the right kind of mood for road rage. Sometimes I initiate it, but mostly it's the other driver. This morning, the other driver was a middle-aged, slightly overweight man at the wheel of a faded blue Previa. Warning: If you think that I am nice + sweet, or you think a girl should always act like a lady, please stop here and don't read on.
I was on Olympic Boulevard in West LA on my way to pick up my friend Randi for breakfast when I changed lanes in front of this Previa to make a left turn at an upcoming intersection. Without really looking in my rear view, I felt that the said Previa swerved impatiently out from behind me, zoomed past on my right, then skidded to a halt at a red light. The Previa was one car ahead of me, one lane over, and the driver looked at me in his side mirror and shook his head. From behind my sunglasses, I shook my head back.
He mouthed, "Fuck you."
I shook my head again, then pointed at the side of my head to indicate what I thought of his state of mind.
He flipped me off.
I flipped him off back, but more hardcore. (I was schooled in the right way to do it back in the 7th grade. You not only extend the middle finger, but also cock the index and ring finger at almost right angles on either side. It looks like you really mean it. The Previa driver had flipped me off the weenie way, holding all his fingers down except his middle one. Anyway.)
He looked at me in disbelief, clearly unhappy at the way our "conversation" was going. He made a gesture like he was jerking off, in the air.
I gave him a big thumbs-up.
He then made some kind of motion with his curved index finger. Was he saying, come here let's fight? Or now-that-I've-jerked-off-I'm-going-to-pretend-to-finger-you? I couldn't tell.
Whatever it was, I laughed in his face. He was almost beside himself at this point, but had apparently run out of ideas. The light turned green.
I resisted the urge to blow him a kiss goodbye, because I thought he was already about to have a coronary. And I had misbehaved enough for one day.
Showing posts with label stories. Show all posts
Showing posts with label stories. Show all posts
Saturday, October 20, 2007
Sunday, October 08, 2006
Evelyn: A story
Evelyn is a 26-year-old Mexican American woman who works behind the counter at a grab-and-go cafe and is popular with customers. She has a youthful glow (even if she sometimes looks a bit worn), a sweet nature, and long brown hair with blond highlights.
She's been working there for a few years, the latest in a series of jobs since she dropped out of high school at age 15. That was when she became pregnant by her boyfriend, Joe, an 18-year-old friend of her brother. They had been seeing each other for about a year.
Evelyn's daughter, Carla, is a spunky girl of 10 who gets into some degree of trouble at school. They live with Evelyn's parents, and Joe does not contribute to the child's rearing.
But to back up. Evelyn was 14 when her relationship with Joe began. When they found out she was pregnant, he told her he would stick with her. By the time she was pretty far along, though, he discovered he had fallen out of love. Evelyn had been hiding her swelling belly from her parents, who were busy planning her quinceanera, and she begged Joe to come clean to them. She recalls him saying: "Don't call me no more, Evelyn. I don't love you."
Eventually, she could not wait any longer and told them herself. Her mother, she recalls, went to speak to the boy. But Evelyn's father could not bring himself to do it. He said he did not want to hear Joe throw in his face the fact that Evelyn had wanted it too.
So Evelyn left school, gave birth to her baby, and entered the hourly workforce. She worked hard, but was fired from a few places, one of them a clothing factory, due to tardiness. A few minutes here and there, nothing outrageous. But at some workplaces, there is little tolerance for that kind of thing.
These days, in between handling the lunch rush and giving the cafe a wipe-down before closing up, Evelyn thinks about going to cosmetology school. She turns down offers to become an assistant manager at the cafe - even though it would pay more - because she still sees this job as temporary, something to tide her over.
But cosmetology, now, that would lead to a better living and enable her to move into her own place. To make it work, she would need to find a program that would allow her to carry a full-time job and take Carla, whom she calls her "baby," to an after-school activity once a week. And before she could even apply to school, she would need to get her GED.
There's bitterness, of course. But it's mixed in with other feelings. "He was young, too," Evelyn says of her child's father. Still, she can't help but criticize her brother for being disloyal and hanging out with Joe still, even after everything.
Sometimes her brother gets mad at Joe too. But the two young men usually fall back into their easy friendship. They just get along well, Evelyn says.
She's been working there for a few years, the latest in a series of jobs since she dropped out of high school at age 15. That was when she became pregnant by her boyfriend, Joe, an 18-year-old friend of her brother. They had been seeing each other for about a year.
Evelyn's daughter, Carla, is a spunky girl of 10 who gets into some degree of trouble at school. They live with Evelyn's parents, and Joe does not contribute to the child's rearing.
But to back up. Evelyn was 14 when her relationship with Joe began. When they found out she was pregnant, he told her he would stick with her. By the time she was pretty far along, though, he discovered he had fallen out of love. Evelyn had been hiding her swelling belly from her parents, who were busy planning her quinceanera, and she begged Joe to come clean to them. She recalls him saying: "Don't call me no more, Evelyn. I don't love you."
Eventually, she could not wait any longer and told them herself. Her mother, she recalls, went to speak to the boy. But Evelyn's father could not bring himself to do it. He said he did not want to hear Joe throw in his face the fact that Evelyn had wanted it too.
So Evelyn left school, gave birth to her baby, and entered the hourly workforce. She worked hard, but was fired from a few places, one of them a clothing factory, due to tardiness. A few minutes here and there, nothing outrageous. But at some workplaces, there is little tolerance for that kind of thing.
These days, in between handling the lunch rush and giving the cafe a wipe-down before closing up, Evelyn thinks about going to cosmetology school. She turns down offers to become an assistant manager at the cafe - even though it would pay more - because she still sees this job as temporary, something to tide her over.
But cosmetology, now, that would lead to a better living and enable her to move into her own place. To make it work, she would need to find a program that would allow her to carry a full-time job and take Carla, whom she calls her "baby," to an after-school activity once a week. And before she could even apply to school, she would need to get her GED.
There's bitterness, of course. But it's mixed in with other feelings. "He was young, too," Evelyn says of her child's father. Still, she can't help but criticize her brother for being disloyal and hanging out with Joe still, even after everything.
Sometimes her brother gets mad at Joe too. But the two young men usually fall back into their easy friendship. They just get along well, Evelyn says.
Tuesday, August 08, 2006
Auto interactions
These car-related incidents took place in the last two days, and are so typical of Los Angeles. Out here, people don't really chat each other up on the street because nobody walks anywhere. So these types of things are about all the interaction I have with strangers, now that I am back in this car-crazed town.
Rush hour, yesterday: I'm waiting to turn left at a busy intersection, and this guy in a Mercedes drives up behind me, honks and starts waving his arms in a forward motion, mouthing "Go!" He means that I should pull forward further into the intersection, like I'm some little old lady who doesn't know better. In reality, I know plenty, and I sometimes even pull out further than I'd like, just so the next car can get his nose out also. But in this case, I don't budge. It's a small and crowded intersection, and I don't want to intimidate the car opposite me that is also waiting to turn left. So I give the guy a crazy wave in the rear view mirror, one of these overly enthusiastic waves you might give an old friend you haven't seen in a while. And the guy starts cracking up.
On the way to work, this morning: I'm waiting at a red light at the freeway off-ramp. An Acura * turns onto the ramp and the driver's eyes connect with mine. He gives me a nod. One of those cool-guy nods.
After work, today: I'm at the coin-operated self-serve car wash, and a short, older guy with a wrinkled, sun-baked face is hustling me for change. For food for his boy, he says. I tell him I can buy him some food, if he can wait until I'm done wiping my car dry. He says fine and goes to sit down. Then I accidentally pluck off one of my windshield wipers and he comes back over to try to help me. He's really trying, but is even less effective than I am. After a couple of awkward minutes, an Australian guy who's been polishing his Porsche nearby walks over and tells my guy to cut it out, to stop bothering me. I can see my guy feels slightly threatened, but is also genuinely kind of offended. He looks at me for help, but all I say is it's all right, it's all right, to both of them. I take the wiper back and manage to reattach it. Before I leave, I give my guy two organic power bars that I swiped from work and a slight smile to the Porsche man as I pull out of the lot.
* Don't ask my why I notice the make of every car all of a sudden. Oh wait, I live in LA.
Rush hour, yesterday: I'm waiting to turn left at a busy intersection, and this guy in a Mercedes drives up behind me, honks and starts waving his arms in a forward motion, mouthing "Go!" He means that I should pull forward further into the intersection, like I'm some little old lady who doesn't know better. In reality, I know plenty, and I sometimes even pull out further than I'd like, just so the next car can get his nose out also. But in this case, I don't budge. It's a small and crowded intersection, and I don't want to intimidate the car opposite me that is also waiting to turn left. So I give the guy a crazy wave in the rear view mirror, one of these overly enthusiastic waves you might give an old friend you haven't seen in a while. And the guy starts cracking up.
On the way to work, this morning: I'm waiting at a red light at the freeway off-ramp. An Acura * turns onto the ramp and the driver's eyes connect with mine. He gives me a nod. One of those cool-guy nods.
After work, today: I'm at the coin-operated self-serve car wash, and a short, older guy with a wrinkled, sun-baked face is hustling me for change. For food for his boy, he says. I tell him I can buy him some food, if he can wait until I'm done wiping my car dry. He says fine and goes to sit down. Then I accidentally pluck off one of my windshield wipers and he comes back over to try to help me. He's really trying, but is even less effective than I am. After a couple of awkward minutes, an Australian guy who's been polishing his Porsche nearby walks over and tells my guy to cut it out, to stop bothering me. I can see my guy feels slightly threatened, but is also genuinely kind of offended. He looks at me for help, but all I say is it's all right, it's all right, to both of them. I take the wiper back and manage to reattach it. Before I leave, I give my guy two organic power bars that I swiped from work and a slight smile to the Porsche man as I pull out of the lot.
* Don't ask my why I notice the make of every car all of a sudden. Oh wait, I live in LA.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
