You: An inattentive tractor trailer driver lumbering down the inner loop of I695 at approximately 7:25 a.m. this morning.
Me: A groggy stop and go driver trying to conserve on the gas. Pangs of road rage flick in my gut. Just four more exits and I'll be home. Already missing the 17-year old daughter I dropped off at the airport. Hate getting up so early, but a cheap flight is worth the dent in my zzzzs.
You: Someone who deserves to be strung upside down by your lousy ankles until a rush of blood infuses your tired pea brain. How can You yak on your cell while navigating something so gimungous in stop and go traffic? A tad too dangerous for my liking, but You don’t seem to mind. A trucking company must be truly desperate to hire an irresponsible imbecile such as You. Too bad I didn’t get a chance to jot down your plate.
Me: Gripping the steering wheel, trying to limit the brake and accelerate as I navigate the merge from I70 east. The pass lane is still the fastest, but not by much. Debating whether to switch a lane to the right. If I can just get past exit 21, everything should be fine.
SUDDENLY, out of nowhere, You jackknife. Burning tire rubber fills the clear morning air. Only a subtle zig from the car in front alerts to the oncoming onslaught. Swerve left just in the nick of time. So does the car behind. Heart skips a beat (or two… maybe three). Am I still breathing? I slam on the horn, not that it matters. When a truck that big jackknifes your way, no amount of blare can save your sorry hump. How lucky to have a wide berth of shoulder to my left. In a more narrow section of the beltway, the van would be smashed like a pancake, no side airbags to protect from the massive concrete guardrail. I could have been toast.
You: Still yakking away on your squibbly little phone. I speed up to pass by and throw You the evil eye. Glaring up, I wonder if our worlds had collided on the stretch between exits 17 and 20, would You have chucked the phone? I suppose You were absent on the day trucker school taught the nuances of stop and go. It requires more attention than your cell, you cretin. You don't deserve to share my road. An insect on the highway of life, go back into the self obsessed hole from which you crawled. Relinquish your license to truck. You are a dangerous pathetic little man.
Me: Incredibly grateful to have emerged unscathed. A two second distraction could have irrevocably shattered my life. A prayer of thanks escapes my lips. I know to who. There are no coincidences. Divine fingerprints litter the earth. In those split seconds between escape and death, I feel their spark. No thanks to You, scurvy scum obliviously barreling down the highway of life behind ten tons of steel. I hope You read this and recognize yourself for the scumbag that You are. I hope You get hit with a massive phone bill for all your unnecessary yapping. I hope your tires pop from all the rubber You burned. Maybe then someone else’s life will be saved, like mine was on a small stretch of I695.