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4
KARTER. It was 98 degrees and not even noon yet – a typical June day in the Midwest. Sitting at the green light waiting for traffic to inch forward was always a difficult thing for me to do. I rode responsibly, and not doing dumb shit while on my bike was difficult if not sometimes close to impossible. I wanted to twist the throttle and pass each and every car sitting in front of me. Instead, I inched forward and absorbed the sound of Jimi Hendrix’s The Wind Cries Mary through the earbuds of my iPod and the sweltering heat from the 1340 cc engine between my legs.
Jak and I met on a Monday, and had seen each other every day for the week which followed. Now Saturday, we had agreed to meet for lunch at Adrian’s, a Mediterranean restaurant on the east side of town. It seemed Jak had as much free time as I did, and although I felt a need to keep my mouth shut about what he may do for a living, part of me wondered. Actually, I wanted to know everything about him.
As traffic opened up, I sped north on Rock road toward the strip mall. By my watch I would be ten minutes early. Not bad for douchebag infused traffic. As I slowed down and changed into the turning lane, I instinctively checked my mirror. As I rolled to a stop, I watched the reflection of a car rapidly approaching behind me.
Slow it down fuck head, you’re coming in kinda hot.
I revved the throttle hoping to get his attention. I looked ahead for a break in traffic.
Shit.
I glanced into my mirror.
Double shit.
Through the windshield of the car fast approaching behind me, I could clearly see a man texting on his phone. He appeared to have no idea I was in his lane or even in front of him. After alternating glances between oncoming traffic and the mirror, I decided I had only one option short of allowing him to plow into the back of my bike. I revved the throttle and shot forward between two oncoming cars, launched up the entrance ramp of the strip mall, and came to a stop a few feet before hitting the landscaped area which separated the entrance from the parking lot. As I pulled off my helmet, I heard his tires screech to a stop. Angry and shaking from the adrenaline, I kicked the kickstand of the bike downward and climbed from the seat. I hung my helmet on the left side of the bars, pulled my earbuds from my ears, and turned to wait for him to enter the parking lot.
As he slowly drove up the ramp, I stood in the entrance and waved my arms. He rolled his driver’s side window down partially as he approached, still holding his phone in his hand. I rolled my eyes and began screaming as soon as he was beside me.
“You fucktard. You almost hit me,” I screamed.
“Well, you’re standing here flapping your fucking arms, what do you expect,” he responded.
“No, out in the street. I was turning in here. You were fucking texting and I damn near got hit just trying to get out of your way. Pay attention to driving, you piece of shit,” I yelled.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he shrugged.
You motherfucker. I ought to cut you.
I reached for my knife and pressed my palm against the outline of the frame in my pocket, “You don’t know what I’m talking about because you weren’t paying fucking attention. You locked up your brakes to stop, douchebag.”
Still holding his phone, he shook it at me through the window, “You mouthy little bitch.”
I slapped the phone from his hand, forcing it onto the pavement at my feet. As his jaw dropped, he looked out the window at his phone – now positioned a few inches in front of my right foot. I smiled, kicked his phone across the entrance, and turned toward my bike.
Fucking punk.
“You little cunt,” he said as he opened his car door and started to get out.
Cunt?
I pulled my knife from my pocket and flipped the blade out. As it snapped into the locked position, he quickly glanced down at the knife and then up into my eyes. He was considerably bigger outside of the car than he was inside. Standing in front of me it was easy to see he was all of six foot two and probably two hundred plus pounds.
“Get in your car before I stab you so full of God damned holes…”
“What’s going on?” a voice said from behind me in a stern tone.
I turned my head slightly to the left.
Shit, it’s Jak.
“Jak, this douchebag almost hit me. I was explaining to him the benefit of not texting and driving and he called me a cunt,” I said as I turned my head to face the walking turd.
“I called you a cunt because you kicked my phone,” he rocked his head back and forth as he spoke.
“Whatever, dude. Come pick it up if you’re that worried about it,” I grinned as I motioned toward his phone.
