Crazy B*tch (Memoirs of a Lemon Lover in Recovery)
Chapter 14—A Clutch Is So Much More Than a Purse…
My “wait to worry” approach regarding the clutch was reaching its end. Now, when I accelerated my engine revved and my wheels got disproportionately stiller and stiller. Heeding the words of my dad, I informed him at the first hint of this. Then, I apprised him of the situation daily, then at hourly intervals. One day, while driving my mom home, some guy took issue with my laboured acceleration on the highway. He decided I was the source of all his road rage, and he started to harass me on the highway.
First he tail gated us, laying on his horn while doing so. Then, he passed me, only to sit right in front of me. Somehow, he managed to go even slower than I was. He drove as if he were trying to get rear-ended by me. After a few minutes of that he sped off, and we no sooner exhaled a sigh of relief, and the angry jackass pulled in behind us from a side road. For someone originally offended by how I impeded his ‘need for speed’ by simply having the misfortune of being the car in front of him, he really had a lot of time to spare for the purposes of “avenging” himself.
So there he was again, tail-gating and honking (and yelling and swearing). My mom was rapidly reaching her own state of rapid, livid, psychosis. Remarkably, as frustrated and harassed as she was by this road-enraged stranger, she was much angrier with my dad. She felt quite strongly, that if my clutch were working properly, I wouldn’t be inciting the rage of idiots like the guy behind us. I can’t say she was totally wrong, however, my dad’s complacency really had no bearing on whether or not the idiot behind me and his rage. For all we knew, he might be equally incensed over both the impaired acceleration, and colour of my car. There was all kind of first-hand empirical evidence available to both my mom and I that there is a sizable chasm between rational thoughts and the “logic” of a crazy person.
Assigning blame was the least of my worries in that particular moment. I need some kind of divine intervention to help me ditch the idiot behind me. In times of life and death desperation, I did like any good human: I found religion. I prayed to all deities of all faiths, I needed something—anything—to happen to deftly remove the idiot behind me. Though I am not one to wish ill on anyone, I do not stand in the way of karma and a person’s right to earn it—and that was the gist of my prayer that day. I simply asked that all the karma that this lunatic was earning (and had earned) be visited upon him—and SOON.
I am no bible-thumper, but I gotta say, prayer really works! For lo and behold, around the next curve of the highway was delivered unto us that day was an angel cleverly disguised as an RCMP officer holding a radar gun. I slowed down even more. This further incensed the bozo behind us. He roared his engine, and pulled out to pass us in all of his idiotic-Indy 500 glory. The Mountie likely heard this guy blaring his horn, and was blessed with front row seats to not only the speeding, but the bully tactics as well. When we lumbered by, the officer had already written one citation and was writing up another. I whispered a heartfelt “amen”. We were nearly home, and my mom was every bit as relieved as I was, but she was still gunning for my dad. That’s the power of prayer for you—delivery from evil and a new clutch!