sludgo’s Mile Markers: Mile 218

I was running behind. Way behind. Again. Always, or so it seemed back then. Had jammed as much as I could into my day thinking foolishly the meetings and sessions I’d scheduled would all go as planned, like clockwork. But of course they hadn’t because they never did. This person or that person would need a few extra moments of my time or my lecture would run long because there were lots of questions or the computer was glitching or the overhead projector wasn’t working. And on that particular day I was hauling tail though town in the A6 trying not to be too late for my meet and greet with the new District Judge at the courthouse when I tried to beat a yellow at an intersection and some old coot in a big green Sedan DeVille made a left right in front of me. I slammed on the brakes and the ABS did its job, stopping me only inches short of the Cadillac. I leaned on the horn, my rage-filled eyes hidden behind my Ray-Bans, and saw the balding, snowy-bearded Caddy Captain looking back at me and shrugging his shoulders and that’s when it happened. I gave him the finger.

The finger. The bird. I first learned how to fly it when I was a little kid. Wasn’t positive right away what flipping somebody off actually meant but knew it was a nasty thing to do. Did it anyway here and there but always and only when I was messing around with my buddies. We’d give each other the finger then laugh about it. It was just a thing that we did—like giving each other noogies or purple nurples. But I’ll never forget the first time I ever saw anyone fly the finger in anger. Never.

It was in third grade. Mrs. Humphrey’s class. My wrong-side-of-the-tracks friend Jimmy Burdick hated her guts and she hated his and neither of them made any secrets about it and one day the irresistible force met the unmovable object. I forget what got things going between them, but this was the golden age of corporal punishment, and sooner than later Jimmy said something that crossed the line and Mrs. Humphrey responded by giving him a good sharp rap upside the head. Now, mind you, Mrs. Humphrey was a big gal, a matronly middle-linebacker, and she delivered the blow with authority, so hard that had it been me I’d’ve immediately admitted defeat and surrendered but not Jimmy. No sir. He stiffened straight up in his desk, curled his lip into a bitter sneer, and flipped her off. Used both middle fingers. Both barrels. Right in her face. It was a bilateral attack that earned him gasps of disbelief and, yes, admiration from the rest of us kids as well as an ear-tugged trip down to Monsignor Ryan’s office for a paddling. You heard me. A paddling. Courtesy of the good monsignor and the hardwood hand-carved “Board of Education” that hung on a peg beside his desk. Whack. Whack. Whack. Times were different then.

Anyway, what brought all this to mind was that I got flipped off the other day. I’m not sure why but I think it probably had something to do with me driving the speed limit. Nobody does that here in New Sludgoville, but I was out in the ‘B and in no real hurry to get anywhere fast and evidently ticked off the guy behind me in his new-gen battleship-grey Dodge Challenger Demon Hellcat Redeye Widebody Jailbreak Holysmokes Jumpin’ Jehoshaphat SRT. Started tailgating me and gave that big Hemi a healthy shot of go-juice at his first opportunity, blasting by in a cloud of dust and smoke, all the while furiously waving that notorious finger at me out of his window. Caught up to him at the next light and he was still doing it. Stuck to the sage advice a friend gave me back when I first moved to LA. Didn’t make eye contact with him hoping not to escalate the situation further and thankfully it worked. The light went green and the guy roared off in a dysfunctional fit of Mopar Madness and that was the last I saw of him. But the whole episode reminded me of me and the old man and his green Cadillac.

I chuckled at the recollection. Those were such crazy days. I was helming a psychological practice that had exploded on me. I’d went from a solo act to having twenty-seven employees and hundreds of active clients in less than three years and the tail had definitely begun to wag the dog. I’d just purchased a big office building and cash was tight at the time so I was doing all the cleaning and janitorial and landscape work myself. Coming in early and staying late to see all my clients then spending the remainder of my evenings and most weekends catching up on paperwork. And I was feeling the pressure. Lots and lots of pressure. And fatigue. And there was no relief in sight. So I had plenty of legitimate reasons to be on edge that day. Plenty of reasons I could blame for snapping in the moment and flipping off Grandpa DeVille. But the Oldsmobile Man always taught me and Big Sis that while reasons explained bad behavior they never excused it and he was right and when I finally pulled into the courthouse lot I still felt like a heel for how I’d acted. My Bad.

I remember that I found a spot and parked the car and rushed across the lush-green yard of the courthouse then up its broad marbled stairway and through the heavy wooden doors. Located the judge’s chamber and hustled inside, huffing and puffing as I entered, trying to catch my breath. Introduced myself to the judge’s silver-haired clerk and she smiled at me genially then told me to have a seat. Informed me that the judge had just taken a call so it might be a minute.

I dutifully thanked her. Turned and sat down where she’d told me then waited a few awkwardly silent moments before softly clearing my throat.

“Uh…I’d really like to apologize for being late for my appointment…for keeping His Honor waiting. Could you please let him know that I hope my tardiness hasn’t caused him any grief and that I meant no disrespect and…”

She interrupted me with a shake of her head and a sympathetic grin.

“Today it wouldn’t have mattered if you’d’ve been on time or not,” she said in a hushed tone. “He was already grumpy when he got in. Mumbled something about a jerk in an Audi who was trying to beat a yellow at an intersection and nearly rammed him in his new Cadillac then had the nerve to give him the finger.”