An Open Letter:
To the Guy Who Cut Me Off and Then Flipped Me Off in 1991

Hey man – I doubt that you will remember me, but you should know that I remember you. You are a very fortunate man, you know. I should have killed you that day. That’s right – I should have rubbed you off of the face of the planet, but I didn’t. I actually garnered enough self-control to keep from gutting your face in the intersection of 70th Street and Shea Roads. You live only because I wanted you to live.

Let me refresh your memory of that chilly morning: I was driving a 1985 Mustang GT, and I had the T-tops off, as it was a very beautiful spring day in March. I was in the far right of the three eastbound lanes. You were driving a cheap-ass Chevy Citation. Your car was white. So were you, with your wavy brown hair and cigarette. You were in the middle lane with a station wagon in front of you. Another vehicle occupied the left lane.

The light ahead had turned red. We were about 125 yards from the crosswalk, all of us decelerating. It was a staggered formation, but we all "had our lanes," so to speak. Your determined path was going to be behind the station wagon, while you waited for the light to turn. You instead opted to shove over into my lane, and you came within a roll of quarters of clipping my front bumper.

I laughed and held my hands up in a gesture that meant (sarcastically): take whatever you want, my lane is yours. You noticed this in your rear-view mirror and for some reason, you decided to hold your middle finger up to me. I read this as a relatively hostile gesture, as no one should be aggressive toward someone that they just violated unnecessarily, right?

My temper flared. The blood vessels in my head bloated to their maximum capacity. I was extremely angry. The light turned green. You gunned that piece of shit, knowing full well that I was going to come after you. We weren’t even through the crosswalk on the other side of the street when I brought my Mustang GT 5-point-O next to you with my passenger-side window next to your driver’s side window.

You looked over. You were a bit surprised, because now this guy that you just told to "fuck off" was sitting less than ten feet from your face in a very high-powered automobile. I looked at you as I let off the gas and screamed: "FUCK ME????" I looked forward to make sure I wasn’t about to impact anything, then, looking back at you I yelled: "FUUUUUCCKKKK YOOOOOOOUUUUUU!!!"

I grabbed a handful of pennies from the plastic console between the front bucket seats and chucked about 30¢ at your car. The sound of those copper trinkets pinging off your windows, door panels and fenders was hilarious, and it caused you to really lose your temper. So you gunned the Citation up to a valve-clattering whine and tried to put your car into mine. You tried to ram me! Ha! But you were no match for the High Output Ponies. I laughed heartily and got the fuck out of there by standing on the gas. Within three seconds, you were a mere speck in the rear-view.

A few years after that, I bought a gun that I carried with me whenever I traveled. I want you to know that if I were carrying that gun on that morning, I would have shot you. Killed you straight up, chief. It would have been a waste of what some would have called "a good man," I’m sure.

I would have killed you because, for the ten seconds that I knew you, I wanted you dead. I would be happy to spend the rest of my life in prison, being anally raped and thoroughly abused, just knowing that you were dead. In fact, I feel the same way today.

Here's hoping you have perished in a fiery car crash since our brief meeting years ago,

Greg A. Bruns