Whose Rage Is It Anyway?

She wanted to punch him in the nose.

Hard, right in the nose!

But she couldn’t, because she wasn’t tall enough to reach that far. From her position in the passenger seat, she could only get her right fist to his shoulder. And it’s useless to hit a grown man in the shoulder. Even if the man was 60 and a lousy street fighter – 30 years of marriage and you learn a thing or two about a guy.

Also, his right was the only hand on the wheel at the moment. She wanted to get from Phoenix to Las Vegas in one piece. Hitting the driver on his driving arm hardly seemed prudent.

He wouldn’t slow down anyway.

Lara took a deep breath. “You’re doing over 100,” she said with a forced evenness.

John didn’t respond. Maybe he didn’t hear. With the driver window open and his left elbow resting casually on the door frame, it was possible. But also possible he wasn’t listening. John had perfected the neutral visage of a man who couldn’t hear his wife speaking.

Lara wasn’t buying it.

She decided to test her theory.

“I forgot the tickets at home,” Lara said quietly.

“What?!” He swiveled his head to look at her.

“Slow down!” she shouted.

“You forgot the tickets? Seriously?”

He had both hands on the wheel now, but eyes only marginally on the road. Lara questioned her tactics.

“I’ve got them! Calm down!” Lara pulled out the shiny paper tickets – Sir Paul McCartney had broken with Ticketmaster so entry to his shows demanded slips of micro-chipped cardboard that came in the mail.

Lara waved the tickets in the air, and then tucked them safely into her large leather satchel – the bag she called a purse but was really closer to luggage. She needed the space, she insisted, to carry everybody’s everything. A habit she began when the girls were young and one she maintained even now, after they’d moved out and moved on.

John rolled his eyes but turned them back to the road. “We should stop for food,” he said. “You’re getting hungry.”

He didn’t ask if she was hungry. He just stated it. Because it was beyond reason that she might feel negative emotion – not hunger! – in a car traveling 100 mph through the Mojave desert.

Admittedly, there wasn’t much between Phoenix and Las Vegas besides open road and Rabbitbrush. Traffic on the two-lane highway was minimal. They’d traveled this route many times, to trade their respectable gated community for a weekend on The Strip. When they’d first moved to Arizona, that first year after Annie got married and Lizzie took a job in London, they’d gone all the time. They’d seen Celine in residency, played craps at Caesar’s and dined on late-night Hawaiian fast food at The Californian. It’d been like dating again.

Now, the trips felt fraught, pressured. As though John was trying to outrun something. Literally, Lara thought, her blood pressure ticking up with the speedometer. She didn’t understand the speeding. He’d rarely done it as a younger man. Her own driving had only gotten more careful. What’s the hurry? Why risk the fender bender?

But John couldn’t – or wouldn’t – slow down. He’d traded in their sensible Subaru with the panoramic sight lines she loved for a Dodge Charger with a windshield the width of a library return slot. The moment they left the dealership, John floored it. As much as she complained about his speeding, he complained about her complaining. Age hit men and women differently, Lara decided. Men felt the need to go faster; women felt the need to feel safer.

Ahead on the road, shimmering in the midday heat, Lara spotted the U-Haul. It lumbered along, shimmying slightly, as if the driver were unsure how to keep a vehicle of this size on the road. John pulled up close, almost to the bumper.

“He shouldn’t camp out in the left lane,” he declared, pulling even closer.

“Do you plan to drive into his back pocket?” Lara asked, unsure she was joking.

John didn’t ease up. “Slow traffic should move right. It’s dangerous.”

It is now, Lara thought, but opted not to vocalize. She looked over at the dashboard. Behind the U-Haul, they’d slowed to 80. Hardly stop-and-go traffic. He could cope.

But he opted not to. As the road curved, John pulled hard into the right lane and gunned forward, turning to glare pointedly into the U-Haul cab as they sped by. Lara couldn’t decide if she was scared or embarrassed. Or which was worse.

“Can we turn on the AC?” she asked. But her question was lost in the open window wind. At least that’s what he’d say if she pressed the issue. She didn’t.

Lara busied herself with her satchel, gathering everything tucked into the various crevices of the car, John’s sunglass case, his wallet, house keys, her snacks, guidebooks, a motley twist of charger cords, and of course, their concert tickets.

Now with open road ahead, John relaxed, driving with his left and leaving his right arm draped casually on the armrest between them. His faded camp shirt was unbuttoned at the cuff and rolled up to his elbow. His skin was tanned and his bicep even bulged a bit against the washed cotton. He’d been working out, stretch therapy and a Peloton bike. Seemed like a lot of money, but he rode it every day, shouting with his virtual teammates. What was money for, anyway if not to buy things they wanted? Now that they didn’t have to worry about rent and car payments and college tuition. Empty nester status meant freedom!

But Lara didn’t feel free. She felt fat and flushed and frustrated with something that refused to settle clearly in her head. She twisted against the seatbelt that seemed to create a bulge at her middle and a noose at her neck. John looked serene now, gazing straight ahead. Lara imagined them, later, in Las Vegas. Cocktail waitresses would flirt with him. And Lara would check her texts to see if either of her girls answered.

“What do you want?” was John’s frequent exasperated demand. Lara didn’t know what she wanted. She wondered if John knew what he wanted. She wondered if it was a cocktail waitress.

She poked at the touchscreen radio on the dashboard. But in the desert, the speakers only spewed static. She moved to turn it off, before the noise bothered John. But he reached forward and put his hand over hers.

“How about something new?” he suggested. “It’s on my iPhone,” he said, gesturing to the satchel at her feet.

Lara reached in and without even looking into the dark interior, smoothly pulled out John’s black phone and a white cord, connecting the device.

John laughed. “How you know where anything is in there is a marvel,” he said

“I’ve got a system,” said Lara taking his right hand in her left and giving it a quick kiss on the knuckle.

“Sure, let’s go with that,” said John. He accepted the kiss and then reached his hand to caress the back of her neck before returning it to the wheel. “Track 3,” he instructed. “You’re going to love this.”

Through the speakers came the sounds of a steel guitar, backed by the pulse of a synthesized bass. Lara listened to the deep, resonate twang. It was mournful and soulful and hopeful all at once. It created space that opened up and asked her what she wanted. Space that seemed to know the answer and beckoned her to step in and find out.

“It’s nice,” she said, failing entirely to capture the emotion.

John grinned. “I thought you’d like it.” He half turned to her. “You were always a guitar gal.”

She closed her eyes and let the music wash over her. He’d brought her new music. It was what he used to give her all the time in the years when the kids were small and money was tight. Never flowers or candy. But tapes and snips of melody he would sing to her as she cooked Hamburger Helper in their galley kitchen. John could always take her someplace new with music.

The blare of a car horn jolted Lara forward into the grip of the seatbelt strap. “What’s happening?”

The U-Haul was behind them. Right on their bumper. Lara looked in her sideview mirror. The young man and woman were bouncing in their bench seat and waving their arms out the window as they honked and shouted. And they were closer than they appeared.

“Fucking assholes,” John said over the noise.

“John, don’t do anything stupid.”

“Don’t call me that! I’m not stupid,” he shouted.

“I didn’t say that.”

“I’m a good driver.”

And he moved to the right lane, leaving room for the U-Haul to pass.

But it didn’t. It swerved right and kept right on honking. Only now instead of waving, the youngsters had their hands out the windows with their middle fingers raised.

“Little pricks,” John snarled. He slid his right foot forward, pushing the Charger faster.

The U-Haul kept pace, roaring behind them like a charging elephant. John wove back and forth between the two lanes. The U-Haul tracked their movements, staying hard on the Charger’s rear. Lara turned to look out the back window. The U-Haul driver had both hands on his wheel now, while his passenger leaned over to keep hers on the horn. They both had the maniacal look of kids who’d eaten too much Halloween candy. Lara felt bile rise in her throat. She remembered telling the girls as children that they couldn’t ride in the front with her. “It’s the death seat,” she’d told them. “You’re safer in the back.” The Charger swerved as John changed lanes again. Where was safety now?

“John, please stop this.”

“And do what? What do you want?”

“I want you to not kill me in a car accident!”

“I’m a good driver.”

“You’re acting crazy.”

“Stop calling me that.”

The road straightened and up ahead Lara saw a camper – cream and tan and big as a city bus. Strapped with bicycles and kayaks, it headed at a sedate family-friendly pace into a long, looming uphill stretch of highway.

“No fucking way,” muttered John as he pushed the Charger even faster.

“What are you doing?” Lara demanded

.

“I’m not getting stuck behind,” John answered, as if that were obvious.

Lara and John roared alongside the camper, with the U-Haul close behind. Lara could see inside, the slightly portly driver in a white polo and striped bucket hat, glancing nervously left at the unexpected excitement beside him. He honked tentatively.

John lurched the Charger forward and pulled right into the camper’s lane. The camper driver honked hard now, only to have the U-Haul squeeze perilously into the definitely-not-two-car-lengths between them.

The three vehicles swerved in whiplash motion. John racing to stay ahead, the U-Haul racing to stay on his tail, the camper just trying to keep his wheels on the road. He was nearly unsuccessful, briefly drifting into the emergency lane, kicking up dust and flying rocks. Lara ducked as if one might shoot her way. She kept her head down and her eyes closed. 

“Are they okay?” she said into her clutched satchel.

“What?”

“Is the family okay?”

“What are you talking about?”

Lara raised her eyes to see the camper had pulled over – safely. But their own race continued.

She turned to John. “How far are you willing to take this?”

John didn’t answer.

But the U-Haul did.

As if in response, it slowed, letting distance emerge between them. John kept the Charger at top speed, but Lara turned around quickly enough to see the U-Haul turn off at the roadside jerky stand. Her last sight of their rival came as it pulled behind the billboard advertising Indian crafts and ice cream. A quick turn, and the orange logo was gone from view. As if it had never existed.

Lara tried to yoga breathe to calm down. It wasn’t working.

“You could have caused an accident. You could have killed all of us.” She wasn’t de-escalating, she knew. And she didn’t care.

“It’s his fault for driving like an asshole.”

“No, it’s your fault. Your anger Your nightmare. You dragged us all into it.”

“I like to be in front.”

“And you don’t care if you kill me to do it.”

“Don’t be so dramatic.”

“Don’t be so dangerous!”

“It’s an empty desert highway. There’s nothing dangerous.”

Lara sat back and fumed. She was scared and he didn’t care. She was stressed and he didn’t care. She was angry and sidelined and hot all the time and he didn’t care. Her vision blurred and her pulse pounded in her ears. Louder. Louder. It sounded like a siren.

Then she realized: it was a siren.

“Oh, fuck me,” John sighed. Behind him the single patrol car flashed blue-and-reds. John put his blinker on and pulled carefully to stop. With swiftness that surprised her, Lara leapt from the passenger door, clutching her satchel. She leaned over the car door, retching onto the dusty blacktop.

“You okay, ma’am?” The lone patrolman called to her as he approached the driver door. Lara waved him off. Last thing she wanted to contemplate was that a total stranger was more concerned for her than her own husband.

“License and registration, sir.” The patrolman stood while John fumbled with the armrest compartments.

“You sure you’re alright, ma’am?” Lara nodded and backed a few steps back from her mess. She’d gotten some on the car door, she noted. Good, she thought. Fucking fast car. You deserve it.

“It’s here somewhere.” John was still fumbling. “Lara, where’s my wallet?”

Lara stood still amid the scrub oak and pale cacti. She didn’t move. She didn’t answer.

“Lara, honey, are you carrying my wallet?”

The officer looked over the top of the car at Lara. She met his eyes. And shrugged.

The officer looked back at John.

John swiveled his head, looking at the officer and then hard at Lara. “Lara, don’t fuck around,” he yelled out of her still-open passenger door.

Lara took two more steps back.

“Lara!”

“Sir, I need you to calm down.”

“I’m calm! I’m fine! Lara!”

“Sir, do you have your license with you today?”

“Yes, dammit!”

John snapped off his seatbelt and tried to open his door. “Sir, I need you to stay in your vehicle.”

The officer reached for his radio and uttered sharp dialogue punctuated with numbers Lara didn’t understand.

It was a few moments before a second officer on motorcycle approached. “This the four-ten?” he asked as he dismounted.

“Yeah, refuses to produce a license and registration. Also, possibly a domestic,” the first officer said, looking over the car at Lara.

Both officers converged at John’s door. John pulled everything out of the glove compartment and tossing it furiously in search of his documents. Leaning over, he looked up at Lara and met her eyes. She didn’t blink.

“Lara, give me a break.” He managed to get out of his seat, over the divider and was halfway out the open passenger door before the motorcycle cop sprinted around the side. Lara had to admire her husband’s agility. Must be the stretch therapy, she thought. No way she could crawl through a car like that.

Now both officers had her husband by the arms. They pulled him from the vehicle and pushed him up against the hood of his beloved muscle car, snapping handcuffs on him as he kicked and protested. 

“Sir, you’re not helping matters,” the officer told him.

Don’t bother telling him to calm down, Lara thought. He’d prefer to rage.

The two guided John to the patrol car, and ducked him in. Lara marveled at the silence that fell around her as the door slammed.

The police car pulled out onto the road, faced back in the direction of Phoenix, and drove off. The motorcycle cop approached Lara.

“Where are you taking him?” she asked.

“Wickenburg. The highway patrol station.”

Lara nodded, still hugging her satchel close, the outline of John’s phone and sunglasses and wallet pressed up against her ribs.

“Can you drive or do you need help,” the officer asked her.

“I’m okay,” Lara said reflexively. Then she thought about it for a second. Was she okay? Would she know if it were untrue? She looked up to meet the officer’s eyes. “I can manage.”

She watched as he got back onto his motorcycle and peeled off, following the dust trail of the patrol car with John inside.

Alone on the highway, Lara surveyed the Charger.

She slammed the passenger door and walked around to the driver’s side. It was open, keys in the ignition.

She slid in.

The seat was deeper than she realized, still warm from her husband. She reached down and adjusted it –depth, pitch, distance from the pedals. When she put her hands on the wheel, she felt a quick shock. Was that static? Maybe.

She looked ahead through the windshield. It didn’t seem narrow now, but pointed, like the slit eyes of a panther. She turned the keys and felt the machine come to life around her.

Lara pulled to the left, and then braked, perpendicular to the road. She looked both ways. But didn’t move.

Silence held around her. Except for the hum of the car engine. That was soothing, Lara decided. Like a white noise. Like rainfall

.

Lara turned – to the right – and pressed the gas. The car jumped out onto the highway, its tail to Phoenix and John and the two police officers. Lara pointed towards Las Vegas.

She lowered her right toes. The Charger picked up speed. Lara imagined her foot melding with the black of the gas pedal and they were one, surging ahead, bold, powerful, mighty, unchallenged. The speedometer ticked up: 70, 80, 90, faster, faster, into the wide-open future.