Rural Road Rage

I would not have normally driven on this road. It was out of the way. It was isolated. It was dull and dreary. But it as the only open rout after the mud slide had taken out the main highway and it was the last fifteen miles between me and home. This had been one of the most taxing sales trips I had ever had the misfortune to embark on. None of these people knew me. I had no clue of the relationships that my predecessor had developed with each of them. What they expected and had become accustomed to.  I was tired frustrated and fed up with entire mess.

The sky was fading and the clouds were starting to take on their golden evening attire as the sun sank in the sky. There was a haze of dust hanging in the air. A constant in these rural whistle-stop regions of California’s Central Valley as much as the smog was a constant in the cities along the coast. 

I approached some taillights in front of me as I eased up the two lane highway.  The old SUV on one sort or another crept along at its own leisurely pace. I of course was in a hurry as most city-folks would be at this time of the evening. Quitting time. I follow impatiently peaking around from behind in the diminishing light. A truck was coming toward us. I ducked back.  The road ambled on and the vehicle ahead slowed, and slowed and slowed, and finally turned down a dirt road. I looked out of my window toward the retreating taillights, my irritation no doubt visible on my face. I want a shower, a glass of wine and my little pooch Petunia the Pomeranian on my lap while I vegge out in front of Project Runway. Good ridden to you! I thought. A head popped out from the drivers window,  an angry red face attached to it spewing colorful epithets that were lost in the wind as I drove on. I smiled wryly and glanced in my rear mirror. The car was turning rapidly on the dirt road, kicking up pebbles and dust as he hurriedly spun his wheels. Is he turning around? I queried.  I shrugged. I had free and open road ahead of me so I continued on my journey unhindered by the cumbersome beat-up SUV so he could do what ever he wanted, in whatever direction he chose. “Free Country…” I said aloud and turned up the volume of my Jill Scott CD.

My eyes glanced in the rear view mirror. Habit. I saw headlights closing in and there was still enough light to make out the shape and color of the truck that had just turned off the road in front of me. It was coming up quick. Hhm, is he chasing me? I though incredulously. “I think he is chasing me.” I said, into the air. The truck was closing in and I could make out the same angry red face still in silent tirade. The driver reached for something but came up short; as the road curved he drifted and grasped the steering wheel with both hands momentarily. Sticking a hand out his window he shook his fist and tossed the one finger salute at my mirror.

“He is actually chasing me. What the hell is his problem?”

I watched as he made a reach again for something under his seat. In this area I would not be surprised to see a shotgun emerge from the window as if from a turret. But what did emerge was even more bizarre. Out swung a giant machete clinched in the white knuckled fist of my pursuer raised high over the roof of his truck. His entire forearm exposed I could make out a swastika tattooed blue on his pale skin.

“Damn! I’m being chased by a skinhead!” The banjo music from ‘Deliverance’ sprang to mind like the cold sweat sprang to my forehead. A semi roared by honking his horn at the scene.  

The menacing truck eased up toward my rear bumper and then out to the left as if to pass, bouncing back quickly as he saw the approaching headlights.

“Oh, Hell No!” I shouted into my empty car and hit the gas.