the finger

Reflections on highway anger, beginning with a Bukowski poem.



the finger
 by Charles Bukowski


the drivers of automobiles
have very little recourse or
originality.
when upset with
another
driver
they often give him the
FINGER.

I have seen two adult
men
florid of face
driving along
giving each other the
FINGER.

well, we all know what
this means, it's no
secret.

still, this gesture is
so overused it has
lost most of its
impact.

some of the men who give
the FINGER are captains of
industry, city councilmen,
insurance adjusters,
accountants and/or the just plain
unemployed.
no matter.
it is their favorite
response.

people will never admit
that they drive
badly.

the FINGER is their
reply.

I see grown men
FINGERING each other
throughout the day.

it gives me pause.
when I consider
the state of our cities,
the state of our states,
the state of our country,
I begin to
understand.

the FINGER is a mind-
set.
we are the FINGERERS.
we give it
to each other.
we give it coming and
going.
we don't know how
else to respond.

what a hell of a way
to not
live.

                                                                 

So, the other day I was at a rest stop, driving with Dexter on our way home, and approaching the gas pumps. An RV was backing up, so I pulled to a stop and gave him clearance... when all of a sudden some a-hole zips between us, like an idiot Jason and Charybdis, to grab one of the last two spots.

Naturally, I growled. And glared. All the time I was pumping my gas behind him. Glaring. Of course he didn't notice.

I finished first anyway (smaller tank), and was hoping to pull out first (That'll show him!!!), but, alas, he got moving just ahead of him. OK, I'll pass him on the highway, and flip him off! But of course he's still in a hurry, and traffic is heavy enough to keep me behind him.

So, for maybe a mile I grind my teeth, raise my blood pressure, and generally plan how I'm going to express my dislike for ... when it dawns on my how much of my day I was letting him ruin, all on account of one tiny action.

I slipped back into the slow lane. I watched him pull away out of sight, obscured by the heavy traffic in my lane. I felt my blood pressure return to normal, like an air mattress deflating with its stopper pulled.

I drove home.