Rough Roads and Short Fuses

Now, I didn’t wake up today looking for trouble. All I wanted was a regular day–get to work, do my job, maybe grab a coffee somewhere that doesn’t misspell my name.

But the world had other plans.

It started early, right as I pulled into the parking lot at the radio station. That’s where I work—nothing glamorous, just a steady gig with decent folks.

I was easing my truck towards the parking lot when I saw a Cybertruck. It looked like it had time-traveled out of a science fiction movie and decided to stop here for fuel.

As a truck guy, I appreciate unique vehicles, so I gave the driver a quick thumbs-up. In return, he gave me the finger.

Now, look—I’ve gotten flipped off before. Who hasn’t? But usually I earn it. This one was unprovoked.

I parked, climbed out of my truck, and before I could even mutter a good-natured “What the heck, man?” he was already walking up to me.

Turns out, he wasn’t there to fight. The guy stuck out his hand and apologized.

He said he was so used to people flipping him off that he reacted without thinking. I took his hand, shook it, and told him, “No blood, no foul.”

We laughed. The moment passed.

And for a while, I figured that’d be the weirdest thing to happen to me today. Boy, did I figure wrong.

After work, I had to run a quick errand. My wife asked me to take her car to get washed.

Her car’s smaller than my truck, drives differently, and sits lower to the ground—it feels more vulnerable. But I got in, fired it up, and headed out.

Sitting in a right-hand turn lane, I was waiting for a car that looked like it might be turning into the lane I was planning to drive into when I noticed a truck come flying up behind me. I checked the mirror, and there he was—another driver, another middle finger.

I don’t know what it is about this face, but people want to flip it off. So anyway, I did it back–not proud of it, but there it is.

Next thing I know, the truck’s beside me, and he’s yelling out his window, gesturing some more. I move into the center lane, and he matches my speed. We’re both wound tight, and before I can de-escalate anything, our vehicles sideswipe each other.

We pull over.

Getting out to look at the damage to the car—I see the guy coming at me, speed walking and waving his arms. I’m no spring chicken and don’t fight strangers on the side of the road, especially when they are younger, taller, heavier, and their license plate displays a U.S. Army Paratrooper tag.

But I’m also not about to get whacked over a scratched bumper and a bad mood. So I backed toward my car, pulled out my little folding knife, and warned him loud and clear, “Do not come any closer!”

That got his attention. He stopped cold, then announced he was calling the cops. “Fine. I’ll call ’em too,” I said.

And I did. Then I sat in my car, locked the doors, and waited while he filmed me like a Netflix crime doc.

Troopers showed up about 20 minutes later. Both of us gave our statements.

After hearing the whole thing, they decided not to ticket either of us. No arrests, no charges. Just two grown men, two banged-up vehicles, and too much adrenaline for a weekday morning.

Returning her car, I told my wife the whole story. She just shook her head. Honestly, I don’t blame her.

The thing is, this wasn’t my first run-in like that. I’ve been pushed, yelled at, and injured—and it’s always over something trivial. A wrong look. A delay in traffic. A gesture someone didn’t like. Take a photograph of someone trying to burn down Reno City Hall.

But this time, it hit me differently. I ain’t proud of flashing that finger back. Nor am I proud I had to pull a knife to feel safe.

But I am tired. I’m tired of living in a world where everything feels like a spark looking for a powder keg, tired of wondering if my next friendly wave will turn into an incident report.

So yeah—something has to change. And maybe, just maybe, it starts with me.

But it sure would help if the rest of the world could stop flipping me off long enough to notice.