HONNNK!
The car behind me seethed. I’d been caught looking down at my phone. And even though we were both idling in the CVS drive-through, I had done wrong.
I jumped, startled, and looked up to see the line had advanced. I needed to move forward. This was somehow urgent, although I still had three cars in front of me.
Rarely had I used the drive-through, preferring instead to go inside. If I were to pick my three favorite places on this planet, it would go: 1) Paris 2) Colorado 3) CVS.
I love wandering the aisles, huffing that new-drug smell, to see what’s new in body wash. Or if there are any fun new tampon colors. Or if there are Dude Wipes for women yet. Equal rights means equal wipes!
But on this day, I had run a ton of errands and was tired. I decided to skip paradise and stay in my car. Pulling in, I was surprised to find a long line, with only one lane open. I was fifth, but no big deal. I wasn’t in a rush.
The same can’t be said for the furious person behind me. Having received the message loud and clear, I now sat, phone down and staring ahead, waiting to advance again. The chance came and I crept forward, still back a few, keeping a comfortable distance between my car and the one in front of me.
HONNNNNK!
An even angrier honk this time. Confused, I looked in my rear-view mirror and caught a flash of motion. The driver, who looked to be in his late 70s, had gotten out of his Toyota truck (matte tan, a color I used to love that now turns my stomach) and was rage-walking to my window with the fervor of someone who watches the news all day long.
Without thinking—I truly had no idea what was happening—I rolled down my window as this red-faced man began to spit fury at me. “You fucking BITCH!” he snarled. “You need to be MOVING UP, do you hear me?”
My heart lurched, shooting sparks of anxiety through my body, as my brain lagged behind. I still wasn’t quite sure what I had done. Stunned into silence, I finally managed to sputter, “You need…to calm down.” Just then, the car in front of me moved, sending this wild-eyed stranger stomping back to his truck.
Hands shaking, I rolled the window up and advanced, now still one car back.
I went into terror mode: I’d done something wrong. The fear of being in trouble runs deep and started in childhood. I’ll do anything to avoid it. And if I can’t, I’ll seek blame so that I can get rid of it as quickly as possible.
I shouldn’t have been on my phone. I should’ve moved up closer to the car in front of me. I ran every scenario in my head to find what I’d done to bring this irrational individual to the brink of violence.
Finally, it was my turn to advance to the front. The young woman working opened the window. I managed to squeak out my name and date of birth, failing to stop the big hot tears now streaming down my face. She froze, unsure how to proceed.
“The guy behind me,” I stammered, embarrassed and without words. “He came up to my window, and he screamed at me, and he’s so angry.” I took a breath, trying to calm both of us. “I don’t know if you can flag him in your system, but I would get a supervisor to come be near you when he pulls up.”
She looked at the security monitor to the side of her computer. “I don’t recognize him,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry.”
I grabbed my prescription—guess if it’s for anxiety surprise it is—and considered snorting it before driving away, fear now burning its way into my lungs. I went into typical post-confrontation mode, searching methodically through my brain files for all the ways in which I could have caused it. If I couldn’t find blame, then I’d move on next to finding grace.
Maybe he had a sick family member at home. Maybe someone he loved had just died. Maybe he was angry about the pandemic. Or women, or politics. Maybe he had a gun on him.
I could feel outrage starting to muscle grace out of the way. Stop, I told myself. He was probably under the extreme stress of being a caregiver. Forgive him: you’ve been there. I made it home, convincing myself in spirals that I should feel bad for him. That I should’ve moved up sooner. Closer.
When my son Ty was young, I went overboard with messages: I thought it was my job to make everything a lesson. Once, when he was a toddler, he demanded from his car seat: “MOM! Where does the sun go at night?”
Sweating, I stammered something like “Uh, well, the earth actually rotates and so when it rotates away from the sun, it gets dark then it, uh rotates back….” I was being so careful at getting my science right, thinking it would reflect on me as a parent if I didn’t.
I glanced in the rear-view mirror to see Ty looking back at me, confused and sad—science before you’re ready can do that. My husband stared silently from the passenger seat for a full beat before whispering, “You know…you can just say ‘Mexico.’” I did not, in fact, know that. My obsessive brain was focused on stuffing this kid full of knowledge, whether he wanted it or not.
Around that same time, I was also going through some heavy therapy and starting to learn how affected we become as adults by what we went through as kids. And that translated into my panicky parent brain thinking I needed to impart that to my own kid, to help teach him compassion.
Whenever he came home upset at someone who’d said or done something hurtful to him, the get-this-right warning light would come on in my head. “Try to be nice and let it go,” I’d tell him. “You never know what’s going on at home to have made them so angry.” I was trying to teach him grace, not the easiest thing for an elementary student to grasp. He often walked away feeling frustrated and unheard while I stayed put, eager to pat my own sanctimonious back.
Finally, he made himself heard one day after school. He came to me, furious. “Sam said I couldn’t run fast,” he said, wound up, “and I DON’T CARE what’s going on at home, it made me MAD!” He was challenging me, and I deserved it. Could I get over myself and give my own kid a little grace for once?
I heard him, and started trying to give him more space to express himself—something I still struggle with, despite him now being 21 and doing a bang-up job of being a kind, compassionate adult. I try my hardest to keep my reactions brief, finding that the most powerful and effective response often consists only of two words: “That sucks.”
I made it home from CVS to find Paul in the kitchen. Lungs burning with anxiety and the shame of being in trouble, I gave him the short version—just enough to answer the confusion upon seeing me so blotchy-faced and shaken. I ended with the hope that someone from CVS would call. That might give me resolution, I thought. Absolve me from feeling like it had been my fault.
Paul gently dissuaded me of that notion. A corporate entity was not going to take the blame for the behavior of a deranged person outside of their four walls. So why was I?
“I’m going back to our room to sit for a bit,” I told Paul. I needed the silence and darkness it takes to breathe my way back out of panic.
I sat and cried and pondered. Out of nowhere, Ty’s voice popped into my head. I DON’T CARE what’s going on at home, it made me MAD! He was right then, and he was right now. The only grace I needed to find was for myself: I had done nothing to deserve the scary, near-violent behavior of that man.
Finally, I came to a conclusion that calmed my entire body: I didn’t care what he was going through. It wasn’t okay.
I gathered myself and joined Paul in the kitchen as he readied dinner. He stopped and lightly clasped my shoulders, turning me towards him. “You alright?”
“Yeah.” I took a deep breath and let grace fly out the window. I had found the compassionate response I needed—only this time, it took three words.
“Fuck that guy.”
Wanna see what I’ve been filling my giant head with lately? Click here.
Thanks for reading! See ya soon.
Absolutely right . . . F#*@ that guy indeed. Perfect example of when people attack you for no good reason, and it is so paralyzing that you can't for the life of you drum up a good comeback right then and there. Of course, then after spending time processing, determining that it was, in fact, not my fault, I then turn the tables to determining what my best comeback could have been. Oh boy, next time that happens I will really be ready for them. Alas, I spend way too much time pondering over the issue, I think you are right that they may need some grace, but also some people are just A-holes.
Thank you for sharing the story - I love your blog. I wait until I really have time to read it to appreciate it. Thinking of you and hope you have a great Mother's Day!
Loved this story, Tina. It was riveting. Sounds terrifying. Imagine this guys poor family - talk about a monster! Thank you for your blog.