terror, gasoline, and the local

I was driving back from the Y, dreaming of the tempeh, lettuce, and tomato sandwich I was going to get for lunch at Field of Green's [it pains me to keep the apostrophe, but it's their spelling], when I noticed, in my rearview mirror, an enormous, sleek, red pick-up truck bouncing down Montrose towards me. It was lunchtime, and so the traffic was a bit heavy, and the truck stood out because of its color, size, and shiny newness. It stayed behind me for a couple of seconds, then pulled around so that it was in the lane next to me. As we waited for a light to change, the driver of the truck, a man, leaned over, waved, and motioned for me to roll down my window.

I wasn't sure. I've had some problems with men in trucks and other large vehicles that have ended badly. There was that time, right after 9.11, when a man from Whole Foods was sure it was me who threw a carton of raw eggs on his SUV, which had "Bomb His Ass and Take the Gas" and "I'll Be for Peace after We Get a Piece of Them" signs and American flags decorating its windows. That whole thing went on for fucking months, almost a full year. And how many times have I been riding my bike only to be nearly run down by some asshole driving a Hummer, speeding through the urban landscape like he's fleeing a scud-missle attack? H. and I were once almost killed by a man driving an SUV so large it couldn't fit around us in a supermarket parking lot and so the driver decided to teach us a lesson by nearly running us over and then coming to a screeching halt, getting out of the cab, and demanding to know which one of us touched his car while his terrified children watched from the tinted windows.

Feeling generous, I took the risk anyway, and rolled down my window. Maybe he needed directions to the vegan lunch place I was about to visit . . . I raised my eyebrows and tilted my head up.

"Yeah?"

"Hey!" he yelled, leaning way over, wild-eyed, frantically gesturing. The truck was so wide it could easily have fit four or five other people in the front. "I need your help!! I drove off this morning without any money and my truck really needs some gas!! I'm on empty!! Would you pull over so I can borrow some cash?? -- I just need a couple of bucks to make it home!!"

What!? I almost laughed out loud. "Um, no," I said, shaking my head and looking back at the traffic light, which was about to change to green.

But the guy was pissed. "FAGGOT!!!" he yelled, and gunned his motor and sped off down Montrose, swerving as fast he could in and out of the lanes.

Ouch. You'd think I'd be used to it by now since it's a word that I've been accosted with ever since I can remember. Still, it stings. Anyone whose ever been called a faggot knows this. Anyone who has ever been mean enough to use the term to describe someone else knows its easy power. I'd say, in the past five years, someone yells this at me about twice a year. It always catches me off guard, especially since it happens when I least expect it -- like today, or like the time I was unlocking my bike at the Half Price Books and a school bus rode past and a chorus of children screamed it at the top of their lungs from their windows, or the time I was walking down to one of my favorite watering holes and someone yelled it from a truck window, or the time I was camping with H. and someone yelled it at us as we were packing up our tent, or the time I was visiting friends in Austin and their crazy neighbor started to interrogate me about faggots, or . . . well, you get the drift. And, look, I know that this guy was -- clearly -- out of his mind. I know, I know . . . it was just the icing on the cake, really.

But, it makes you think about terror and terrorism, and anti-gay violence, injurious speech, and the cultural and emotional trauma that it takes so many of us so many years to get the fuck over; and you think about that big red truck and that man's frenzied truck-to-car begging for money so he could fuel it, and you think that maybe this is not some Mad Max future, but right now, right here.

What did this guy actually think was going to happen, anyway? That I was going to say, "O, you poor man! Yes, let's drive past the homeless vet begging for booze money on the median strip and the gaggle of street kids looking to stir up some trade and park safely in the Exxon station so I can get out of my car and meet you face to face, at which point, I am sure you will not stick a gun or knife in my face and rob me or, worse, shoot me or stab me. Yes, please, by all means, let's pull over -- the wax job on your truck clearly indicates that you need me to buy you some gas. In fact, let's use my credit card so you can fish the receipt out of the trash and steal my identity after I drive away."

I reminded myself that tailing this guy and trying to run him off the road was not a good idea. I took a deep breath and put my turn signal on. "It's gonna be alright," I said to myself, "It's gonna be tempeh, lettuce, and tomato. It's gonna be a little cup of vegan gumbo soup. It's gonna be a slice of lemon in your glass of water -- you'll love it," I promised myself, "you really will."