Since we moved to the East Coast, I'm even more of an in-your-face driver. I catch myself drumming my fingers on the steering wheel when I’m stuck behind a meandering, slow driver. And I say something like…For God's sake, make it occur, or pull over and park. Make a choice. Now. And I might add a few more words at the end; since I don't know the slow slob's name, I make a really good one up.
The penance for my impatience will be standing in faded fatigues at the end of the bridge I cross over when driving into the semi-eternally gridlocked city where I work.
I watched him for several months before I rolled my window down the first time. Most weeks I hand him a five or a ten as I pass by in the frustrating trudge of morning traffic. Usually, it's on a Friday.
I've wondered what his name is, but I never asked for it.
Semper Fi, he always says.
And we exchange a glance, and dulce et decorum est pro patria mori, I reply, because I know what he's been through.
Faber est quisque fortunae suae, he says as he scrumples the bill into his camoflaged pocket, and I believe it, and all I can say, with a tear in my eye, is, diligentia maximum etiam mediocris ingeni subsidium, which he takes exception to.
Opening: Anon......Continuation: Anon.