While she waited, she answered a text from our son. She noticed someone waving. The lady in the van next to her was giving the universal sign for "roll down the window". Only it seemed more like "roll down the window, bitch."
"That's illegal!" Veins bulged in her neck. "I've got your license number, I'm reporting you!"
This goes on. And on. My wife, too stunned to respond, rolls up the window. The lady's eyes begin to pop out of her face that's about to catch fire. Fortunately, they went different directions. And the texting police never showed up.
Traffic brings out the crazies.
Case in point. High school. Three of us are catching a ride home with two high school seniors. They yell at a car in front of them. Apparently, it contains a Marine that has decided to show these high school punks some respect. Some honor.
(I don't know if he was a Marine, but you get the picture.)
We pull over in a neighborhood. Marine saunters over. The seniors -- well-versed in fighting -- meet him halfway. Then they clown this guy. Bad. They take his keys and throw them over a house. We pull away while he stands in someone's front yard watching.
Here he was going to improve the lives of some whipper-snapping punks with some tough love. Now he was touching his lip and looking at the blood on his finger.
Yeah, you never know who's in traffic.
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