Road Rage

Shit-fuck-shit-fuck-shitty-fucks-fuck! Who the hell swerves into the other lane like that? These fucking rich boys and their speedy sports cars, that's who. I can see the prick right now in my review mirror and, had I been born in an ideal world, the strength of my glare would've popped his towhead like an unwanted zit.

I wait a few minutes, taking slow, deep breaths. I picture myself getting out of the car and starting to scream at the crazy man in the black Hummer. You know, the general "fuck you!" and "You should just GIVE your license to the CHP!" It's the only decent thing he could do for the rest of population.

God, my heart's beating as fast as a jackhammer. If my hands weren't clutching the steering wheel I think they'd be trembling. My skin feels all tingly from the adrenaline coursing through my blood. What if I hadn't turned in time? What if the car had hit me?

Okay, be cool. Just be cool. I still have to drive a few miles into town so I have to freak out later.

Okay, now get out of the car.

Wow, my legs are weaker than I thought they would be. Thank God I'm wearing flats instead of heels. I can't believe this guy isn't getting out of his car! He almost slams into me and now he's just sitting there in his car with his friend, staring at me like I'm crazy. If his Hummer had actually hit me, my little Volkswagen would've been completely and utterly totaled. I glance back at my aged VW with a super imposed image of a crushed tin can with the little V and W shorten into overlapped images.

Okay, be cool, be polite. Smashing his face in would look bad in court. Besides, there's always the option of keying his car later on tonight.

I slowly walk up to the driver's side of the Hummer and peered up at the slightly tinted window. A moment passed before the automated whir of the window slid down to reveal a young man with blue eyes and blonde hair. The guy looks pale, shining a pasty white against the black leather of the car seat. I am suddenly struck with guilt. Is he sick? The emotion is quickly surpassed by common sense and rising anger. If the guy is so sick why is he even driving?

"Are you ok?" Wonderboy, the driver's passenger, asks after a moment of silence.

I glance at the driver, who avoided eye contact by staring at the steer wheel intensely. He seemed to be content with letting his friend speak for him.

"Besides being a bit shaky in the hands, yes." The driver's eyes seem a bit glassy and his pupils look suspiciously big.

"Sorry about what happened back there."

Wonderboy has dark brown hair, clear blue eyes and a clean-shaven look. He sounds sincere and his eyes reflect only concern for my well-being. I imagine this guy is able to get away with a lot with just an apology.

"Yeah, seems like your friend here is having some trouble."

My comment earns me a glance from the blonde. I notice his eyes are having trouble focusing on me. I take an experimental sniff, no alcohol.

"Sorry. I'm glad you're ok," he interjects, "I was driving too fast and the wheel slipped. I must've hit a puddle of water."

"A puddle of water," I repeat dryly.

"Yeah, I think I hydroplaned for a bit," His face was completely straight.

"It has been really foggy the past couple of days," he friend chimed in. He flinched when I turned my stare on him.

"Well, maybe you should slow down a bit. Have to be careful of those puddles," I said hoping to cut flesh with my words.

"Thanks, I will. You have a good evening," he replied curtly. The window rolled up without further comment. I walked back to my car, a boiling mass of murder.

Ooo, what a smooth talker! Blondie sure had a lot of balls, though his blue-eyed friend did most of the talking. I wasted time walking out to his car – probably pulled shit on the road all the time and lets Daddy Big Bucks take care of the collateral. Wait, damn it, I should've said that to his face.

God, I'm late!

New job, new town, new house…and I'm late. I have a good excuse, though. Getting run over by an insane, rich boy is a good excuse. So smile, look a little distressed instead of flaming pissed because mouthing off about the locals (who are most likely the clientele) is not a good side to show to the boss.

Okay, obsessing over being nearly killed is going to be a real cramp in my day. Need to think about something else, something shallow and not filled with rage. Clothes, my work clothes - the upside about working behind the bar is that it really doesn't matter what you wear from the bottom down. Contrary to the stereotype, bartenders don't dress like hookers, or climb up on the counter to dance and sing karaoke. Just wear a sexy top that lets you pick up crates of beer bottles without wrinkling and you're good to go.

Besides the flirting, the job practically does itself: people come in wanting to get drunk, and I serve them beers until I'm legally obligated to stop and then send them home in a taxi. Niki, the lovable bald muscle man, told me he deals with all the aggressive drunks with a large bat. I look forward to see him use that on somebody someday. My job is basically to look pretty and keep up the stream of alcohol with the occasional soda or side of fast food for those that aren't on the fast track for liver failure. Not that I look down on alcoholics – that would be crazy. Since entering this profession, they've become my people.

I am the hot chick dispensing liquor and wisdom.