Yesterday though, there was one car that stood out. It came barreling down the street as I was walking Sasha. As it came close I gave the signal. My hand, palm down, moving towards the pavement in little increments while I looked the driver in the eyes. He didn't seem to care and continued speeding towards us, so I screamed out, "Slow down!" as he passed. A skinny arm came out of the drivers side window, at the end of that arm was a fist with one finger sticking up.
The next day I asked the 'mayor' of 17th Terrace, Miss Diane, if she knew of anybody with a black Mustang. Miss Diane has lived on that street since 1956. She knows everything going on down there.
"Oh sure, that's Mr. Smith. They live down there by that basketball hoop next to the driveway."
So Sasha and I took a little walk down that way. Just as we got near that house, the black Mustang came pulling up in the driveway.
"Do you always give people the finger?" I said as the man got out of his car.
"Were you driving this car yesterday. Somebody was speeding down here in that car, and gave me the finger when I yelled at them to slow down."
"My son had the car yesterday. What did he do?"
"Speeding. Gave me the finger."
I was a little asshole when I was a teenager. I once told a neighbor that I could speed down our street because there was no posted speed. He about blew an artery. He told my dad, and my dad said to me, "What the hell's wrong with you, you stupid asshole. It's a goddamned residential street. The fucking speed limit is twenty, you moron."
So I was very happy yesterday to have returned the favor. Unfortunately I doubt if that kids dad will have the flowery language my dad had.