Flipping the bird...

In the Tucson area, it is a general rule that giving someone the finger is likely to result in physical harm. Perhaps this is the last tradition in force as so many others have waned over the last 10 years, including the dictum that one should always be polite. While large swathes of the population still manage a certain zealous friendliness, an exception to the rule is the gauntlet one must run on route 77 as it passes through Oro Valley and Marana. These townships are johnny-come-latelies .. incorporated in the mid-70's, there are no traditional neighborhoods and most of the housing stock, built in the last 10 years, is gated. Most residents too are new arrivals from elsewhere. As far as I can tell from visiting one or two houses and from noticing the preponderance of sparkling new churches and shiney SUV's ... denizens are devoutly religious and devotedly materialistic, if such a thing is possible. Perhaps entitlement is conflated with being blessed.

On route 77 north of Tucson, one notices aberrations in behavior on the roads and in the shopping centers, where people are likely to butt you with their shopping carts or steal the parking-lot space you are angling for with nary a backward glance. On the roads, aggressive tailgating, honking, straddling lines between lanes and sharp swerves without signalling all constitute the norm. This litany of complaints is perhaps borne in part by the fact that I am a new (and nervous) driver. I must confess too the litany is simply a prelude to excusing my own undecorous act the other day. Yes, I gave someone the finger. Never do that.

The details of such events are seldom interesting but what happened is this: I was driving with my husband down the right lane of a 55-mph road signalling to turn into a recycling collection facility. There was a bicyclist ahead so I didn't immediately pull onto the shoulder (as one often does). As I started to pull to the right just before the turn, a maroon truck honked as it swerved around us in our lane. Mind you, there were no cars in the fast lane and he had ample occasion to pass. Somehow the New Yorker in me lost all patience. For a moment, I was once again convinced that there is nothing so worthwhile as letting someone else know what you think of them but cars offer little chance for such effective communication. So I flipped the bird.

Before I knew it he had pulled ahead and in front of me, screeching to a halt in order to block the way and missing the bicyclist by inches. Luckily there was a sliver of space between the rear of his truck and a gulley to the right, so I squeaked through thinking I am not sticking around for this. He had meanwhile jumped out of the cab and was headed round to the back. He was in his thirties perhaps fair hair that was too neatly slicked back, as if pomaded with furniture polish, and opaque eyes. "Hey!" he cried as we drove off, "Where are you going?" sounding disappointed.