Road Rage

“ROAD RAGE”
2000

     I really hate getting up on Mondays.  That's the day I have to go to New Orleans for my eye examinations.  I've been doing it now for the past three weeks and the doctor at the LSU Eye Center told me that I must continue these tests for another nine weeks as a post surgery evaluation of their new surgical implant.  It's not the torment of being injected with colored dye into my blood stream for eye tests.  It's not even the waiting around for the doctor to update my files.  I realized that I was volunteering to be a "dummy" for their new surgical procedures when I enlisted in the program.  But, it's the darn 50-mile drive.
     Yes, the hectic drive from Pass Christian to the “City” at 7 a.m. to reach the clinic by 8 0'clock.  It's the traffic and the cars that race by – 15, – 20, even 25-miles past the speed limit.
     Oh, well, it's time to shower, shave, brush my teeth and wake up.  If I hurry along, I'll be able to read the first page of the morning newspaper.  Not that there's much in the Times Picayune.  I don't get the New Orleans mid-town or Metry edition where I spent most of my life.  Instead, I get the northshore section about Slidell, Covington, Mandeville which has its own news bureau that covers north of the lake and those small towns.  But, if I don't get the “Times,” I won't be able to keep up with the "goings on" which meant so much to me in my past life.  Besides, the obits let me know I'm getting older.  A continuing number of faces show up from time to time which were once familiar to me.  Not that I mourn for them, but sometimes I learn something I didn't already know.  Even of old friends – facts I wasn't aware of.  Then, there are the social pages that let's me realize that I'm now reading about the sons and daughters of old acquaintances who are either dead or play dead with their entry into retirement.  I'm glad I didn't escape from New Orleans just to come to Pass Christian because I wanted to retire.  Not me!  I'm not retired!
     Oh, well!  Hell, I already said "Oh, well", so it's Ho-Hum for a change.  Eh!, you're talkin' to yourself again.  Shut up and get out of bed because now you won't even have time to read the headlines.
     The rest of the days of the week are just fine.  It's only these recent Mondays that I've come to resent – not being able to jump up and do my thing.  Any normal day, I'd be up already and on my way motoring to McDonald's with my newspapers, to then saunter in like the "Big Kahuna" and order my 27-cent "Senior Coffee, Please Ma'am?"  "How are you today, I'm fine."  "Looks like the weather is holding great, right?"  "Hi, John, you're alright?"  "Harry, good seeing you this morning."  "No, thanks, I have my own papers."  "Thanks, anyway, Jim."
     All these formalities just so I can get my cup of straight caffeine and grab a table for myself.  It's always too early to talk or even to just sit and listen to someone else gab the day away.  Now, I even sound like a grouch to myself,  But, this is it!  This is Paradise -- in the waking hours of the morning -- as the sun cuts the horizon and the waters of the Mississippi Sound start to glitter from the introducing radiance of a new day breaking forth.  As soon as the sun's rays fall upon the large window pane I chipper up with a welcome alertness.  I then close out the rest of the 27-cent patrons sitting at their respective tables.  I hate to admit it, but I get a little perturbed when I come in a few minutes after 6 a.m. and find someone has taken MY table.  I don't grunt or make faces, I just take another table that is usually left open so that I don't put my personal distress on one of the other regulars.
     Darn, if my mind doesn't seem to ramble more often of late.  Shut-up and read.  Well, I can skip through the governor-sez stuff, it doesn't effect me any more.  Well, what do you know, the high-rise bridge is undergoing a new exit for faster egress.  That's all that mountain of concrete needs -- higher speed-ratio access entrances.  Just the last time I proceeded across the bridge, some darn fool slammed on their breaks causing a string of cars to come to a halt blowing their horns to the limit.  Ah, I'm glad to see good ole Charlie get a promotion.
     "Uh, Hi, Tad.  Yeah, you can join me, I'm not reading my paper."  Now, I have to grin and bear his chit-chat, while his stomach hiccups stale gas.  Why don't he take Rolaids are something?   Maybe, he's like my brother who reportedly got a whole drilled in his stomach from taking too much aspirin.  It must be like Chernobyl when the nuclear core overheats.
     Uahhh!  There he goes with those sour stomach noises.  "Sorry, Tad, I have to get back home for a telephone call from my son in Miami."  "See ya later.  Take care."
     Ok, quit reflecting on yesterday.  Let's get your ass up, shower-down, and get on with the trip to Queen City, USA.

* * *
 Hags, Hogs, Hagling, Hoggin, Huggin, and Brain-Lashed Hooligans

     "Oh, Lordy!  Oh, Lord, Darling, you make me feel so great.  Ohhhh, don't stop,  Don't stop!  Damn you, don't stop --  Come with me.  Come with me.  Oh, Sweetheart, it's soooo goooood!  Whooof.  Ooooh, yeah!  Ooooh, yeah!"  "Tom, honey, roll off me, you're too heavy!"
     Damn, do I have to talk him into cumming all the time.  Do I have to fake an orgasm just to get it over with?  It only takes him two minutes.  At least he doesn't ask me, "Did you cum yet?," anymore.
     I was having lunch with Sally and Theresa when I first told them I didn't care for S-E-X anymore.  -- At least not with Tom.  I remember that they giggled while popping grapes into their mouths.  They were watching their weight and I was gorging on a ham sandwich thick with mayonnaise because I wanted to get fat.  I was getting so unhappy with my sex relations with Tom, that I thought if I picked up 20 or 30 pounds he would stop his prodding my ‘neithers.  He reminded me of the joke of "slam, bam, it's over ma'am — slam, bam, thank you ma’am."  – And, then he'd get angry when he asked me, "Did ya Cum?"  – And I'd tell him, “I don't know.”
     Reflecting back on Sally and Theresa, my highschool chums.  We had all just gotten married during the past three years.  I'd only been married two years and still didn't want to have a baby.  I thought, "What a disgusting way to introduce life into this World?"  Sally popped back into my thoughts.  She had asked me, "Lorna, has Tom ever brought you off?"  I gave her a quizzical look.  She repeated, "Has Tom brought you off? —  Do you get orgasms with him?"
     Theresa was more gentle.  She patted my hand and asked, "Lorna, do you get any special feelings when making love with Tom?  I looked at them both in disbelief, because we had never talked so intimately about ourselves.  We always joked —  but mostly about other girls.  – And, I never paid much heed to what they were talking about anyway.
     I'm not naive, but I had always thought that making love was something that would be beautiful with my Prince Charming.  At the beginning, Tom was my Prince Charming.  He was an admitted virgin like me.  We both attended the same church and withheld ourselves from getting too close as we attended church services and meetings together.  Somehow I just thought that marriage was natural for both of us and that we would live happily ever after.  But, the sex-thing drains the happiness out of my dreams.  I just didn't like what Tom did to me.  It wasn't at all like what I thought it would be.
     Theresa squeezed my hand and asked me again, "Do you get a good excited feeling with heavy breathing and a sense of well-being while making love to Tom?"
     I blurted out, "No!, I hate it!  I don't like to have him put his thing in me!  I don't like his hoarse breathing and his grabbing at me, and asking me if I'm cumming?"
     Then Sally and Theresa started in on me with a bunch of questions.  Sally said that she has gotten more out of sex ever since she started faking orgasms with her husband.  Theresa said that she had to fake it sometimes too, just to keep her Latin Lover happy.  I asked them what they were talking about.  I never heard of anything like what they were saying.  Theresa grabbed my hand again and gently patted it and stated, "Lorna, you've got to make Tom feel good about himself as a man.  Men need to feel that their women love them and the only way they can translate that is when they feel that they can make their wives have orgasms.  They actually think that if a girl has an orgasm, that means they love their man."
     Sally asked, "Did you and Tom have sex before you were married?"  I stated, "No, not ever!"  She went on, well Tom probably needs some lessons and the best way for him to learn is for him to have a good sense of accomplishment.  You have to make him feel that you're getting it "off" so that he can be fully satisfied after he jumps out of the sack."
     I said, "But, what about me?  What should I feel?
     Theresa explained in her soothing manner, "Darling, when he feels that you are enjoying what he has to give you, he will then learn to do it better, and then you might start getting your own good feelings about making love.  If you really love Tom, you will learn to fake an orgasm —  you can't wait for Tom to ask you if you're cumming.  You've got to make it sound like you're really having a ball so that he doesn't have to ask you."
     "But, how can I fake something if I don't like it anyway," I asked?
     They both laughed and started grunting and hissing and ooohing and aaaahing.  I looked around at the other tables embarrassed.  Sally and Theresa just laughed all the more.

* * *
On Reminiscing

     Damn the newspaper carrier, she always has to toss the damn newspaper right smack into the middle of the damn wet lawn.  And damn if she doesn’t make me wade out to get it.
     Well lookie here – my good friend Dave is opening a Vacuum business here at Long Beach.  Good for him.  I better hurry — I’ll just take time to open to the Obits.  Good.  Nobody that I know.  Every time I open to the column it reminds me that I should write my own obit, but I keep forgetting.  With these weekly trips to New Orleans, I better get on it.

* * *
More Haggling

     Tom was up showering and I could feel the wetness within me from his cum.  I don't dislike it as I use to –  its gotten much better, like Theresa had explained to me.  She said, "Lorna, just take a deep breath when he's in you.  Hold it as long as you can.  Let it blow out of you and gasp for air and pinch him tight and tell him you're comming.  That will get him so excited that he'll pop off his cork in no time trying to catch up with you."  
     It works!  Thank goodness, it works.  I do feel better because Tom feels good about everything now.  But, I do hate to lie!
     Ever since we moved to our new home in Slidell, I've had to continue working in New Orleans so that we could pay for our house notes.  Even Tom realizes that we have to wait to have children, so most times he wears a condom, but he didn't this morning.  I wish that I had jumped into the bathroom first so that I could douche myself.  I don't want to get pregnant.  Sally said that if I douche myself with a solution of Lysol I would not get pregnant.  My doctor said that's not true, but it seems to work so far and I'll continue doing it.  Besides, my mother told me that she used Lysol douches also.
     If I don't hurry up I'll be late for work and the boss will say something nasty.  I hate him and I hate my job and I wish I didn't have to make the drive into the City.  Sometimes I even hate Tom for it.


* * *
Back from Reverie

     I don't know why it took me so long to get going this morning.  It's a beautiful day and I'll be able to grab a cup-to-go from the McDonald's in Bay St. Louis.  I can hardly hold out for 15 minutes before getting a caffeine-fit.  Change that station –  it's too country.  Ah, that's good listening.
     “Yes, ma'am, can I get a senior coffee through drive-in service?  No, well, give me a coffee and biscuit.”
     "Drive up to the window, Sir!"  " Dollar-sixty-eight, Sir!"
     That's one thing I use to like about New Orleans in the grand ol' days.  The coffee was good and strong and steaming hot.  This is dishwater clear and tastes like yuck.  I like it better at McDonald's in the Pass.  Well, it's quarter-to-seven, I can continue in to New Orleans at 60 mph and get to the Eye Clinic off Tulane Avenue by 8 a.m.  The scenery is delightful –  the bayous –  the pine growth.  
     Uh-oh, look at that stupid driver cutting into that other car's lane.  What's wrong with drivers today.  They don't want to stop at stop signs, at traffic lights, or at rail crossings.  The ones that get hit deserve it.  I remember when I was a kid –  even though I drove faster then I do now, I never got a ticket for passing stop signs.  I guess I got a total of three tickets for speeding 5-mph past the speed limit.  I really get uneasy while driving between Slidell and New Orleans.  There goes another crazy bullet.  
* * *
Back to Haggling

     When I told Sally and Theresa that I was enjoying sex, I was really lying, but things are better ever since I took their advice.  Besides, if I didn't tell them I was enjoying it they would continue to harp on me and continue to give more advice.  But, really, it is much better.  And, now that Tom has more office responsibilities he's too tired to mount me more than once a week.  I guess I can handle that.  I wonder what makes some women enjoy sex.  Is it the man that makes the difference?  Tom hasn't gotten any better.  He just stiffens up, pops it in, pops it off, and falls out.  I wish he would use a condom more often.  He knows we can't afford a baby.  Look at that slow-poke in front of me.  I'm going to be late.  Dammit, Mister, move that old car out of my way.  Oh, dammit, hit the gas and get around him when that Red Honda gets alongside of him.  Ah, there's my chance.  Take this, Asshole!
     If my mother saw me shoving my finger into the air like that, she'd want to tan my hide.  And, my father, he'd really get on me.  I don't know why I did that.  It use to be a nasty gesture, but now all my friends do it.  Dammit, there's another slow-poke.  Why do they allow these jerks on the road during drive-to-work-time.  They ought to know that driving within the speed limit only creates slowed traffic and endangers other drivers.  Dammit, take that, and stuff it!


* * *
And Back to my Bullshit Reverie

     Well, here I go into the crazies.  It always happens no matter what weekday it is with all these cars zooming past me.  Even the right lane for slow traffic has a bunch of goof-balls pressing in to kiss my rear-bumper.  I don't know how many more weeks I can handle this without getting rattled by these fool drivers.  Most of them seem to be young girls hauling ass to town, putting lipstick on, combing their hair, and rummaging through their purses.  Whoa, there, sister, you almost side-swiped me.  Look at her still pushing that brush through her locks.  Dam-wimmin-drivers in their little Japanese cars.  I'm glad I've got my old Town Car tank.  If they hit me they'll just bounce off.  They ought to be home with their kids.  It's a wonder there aren't more accidents —  with these little girls flirting with death.  And there goes a mixed-up cowboy sucking his cola can in his high-wheeled pick-up.
     I wonder how my son is.  I hope he's coming along better since he had that wreck with his truck.  His doctor claims that his nervous system has been affected by the impact to his head.  Something about an accelerated dopamine flow in his striatus.  Can you imagine that he goes driving now and doesn't remember how he ends up at some places.  I wish my striatus would actuate my dopamine while I was driving this speedway.  They ought to call it the Autobahn.  Yeah, it would be wonderful if I could activate my dopamine levels like putting my car into cruise control, I could put my head into auto-pilot and forget about these damn female drivers putting on lipstick while they're gazing in their rear view mirrors instead of paying attention . . .  — Damn that Bitch, she almost didn't slow down.  If she doesn't ram somebody's ass along the way I'll eat my hat.  This isn't the longest bridge like the Causeway Bridge, but this is the longest five miles of bridgeway that I've ever driven.  —  And, its supposed to be a 60 mph limit.  Some of them bitches are hitting 90, as they jump from lane to lane and weaving in and out.
     Oh, Lord, give me the patience to sustain these trips!  Well, now I can relax a little since we are bumper to bumper and traveling under 50 across the High-Rise over the Industrial Canal.  I have to stay in the fast lane while all these cars start a new maneuver in striking out for new lanes.  If I stay in the left lane I just have to care about what happens on my right flank.  Uh-huh, there's one, yeah, some wench hit the side of a truck.  Those idiots don't care what size object they attack.  Those female crazies will pounce out at anything that moves.  I guess it all started with Women's Suffrage.  This thing with women’s rights has gotten well out of hand.
     Alright, keep your mind on the traffic.  Keep alert, because we have to pull to the far right lane to exit out to Tulane pretty soon.  Ahhh, here we are almost safe.  Just off this exit and a couple of turns and yeah that does it.  Here we are at the parking lot.  Oh, what a relief!


* * *
Even Haggling has its ending!

     How in the world did that girl hit that big truck?  That truck-driver mustn't have been watching in front of him.  He was probably ogling some girls legs as he was nosing his head out the window.  All those truck drivers do, is stuff their eyes whenever they can get a free glimpse of skin.  Dammit, this guy in front of me is taking it too slow.  Why in the hell don't he get in a slow lane instead of hogging the fast lane.  These old geezers are all alike.  They think they own the road.  Just like my Dad, he's "King of the Road." But, at least my dad is sweet about it.  He just blesses everybody and wishes them well.  If he wore a hat, he'd probably tip it to the drivers passing by.
     I sure hope I cleaned myself out this morning.  Tom is just going to have to wear raincoats when he wants to make it with me.  I can't keep being bothered with having to wait each month to find out if I'm pregnant.  He needs to be more considerate and understand that if I have to stop work he'll have the whole load to carry.  Besides, we have to start saving some money for future needs.  We haven't saved a nickel except the thousand bucks that his folks gave us when we got married.  Now, what, I'll take the next exit off and storm down Tulane Avenue to Rampart and bust back around.  O.K., I'm on time.  I think I'll call Sally and Theresa and ask them to have lunch with me.


* * *
Reverie’s Over

     Ah, there’s a parking spot right near the Clinic entrance.  I shouldn’t let myself get excited with those young filly drivers.  But, Hell, they’re a menace to everyone.  “Hold the elevator, I’m coming up!”
     “Yes, sir,” replied a sweet young lass, “take your time, you don’t have to hurry.”
     Thank you, young lady, I don’t want to be late for my doctor’s appointment.”
     “Okay, what floor, sir?”
     “Second.”
     “Fine, that’s mine too, who do you have an appointment with?  I’m at the Nurse’s Reception  Desk.”
     “With Doctor Cassandra.”
     “Oh, then, don’t worry, I’ll make sure that you’re her first patient.  She doesn’t show until 8:15.”
     The elevator door opened and charmed by her sweetness, I nodded for the young lady to step out first as she smiled back and stated, “Can I get you a cup of coffee, Sir?”
     “Oh, thank you so much, I would really appreciate it after a hectic drive in from Pass Christian,” as I nodded with satisfied approval at the delightful young lady.
     “I know what you mean about driving into the City.  I come from Slidell everyday and it’s quite hectic.  — By the way — my name’s Lorna.”

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