Big snow. They said it’d be the snowstorm of a generation or a century or a new all-time record. The fridge at home seemed more dark, bottomless, empty pit than fridge, and the little demon vultures would devour me if they weren’t fed. Little did the demon vulture children know I got a recipe for them too if things go dark. Had to get the milk and bread.
Why my husband was unable to go to the store was anybody’s guess. If he did go, he brought home every kind of doughnut they made and five kinds of fruit flavored candies. No protein.
Big snow. I raced down the freeway in heavy traffic. No time to waste, never any time to waste. Barreling along in the left most lane at, at least a hundred and ten miles per hour. Not kilometers. On this little crap stretch of highway that connected where I lived in Ohio to the nice grocery store at the other side of town. Must get the grocery store rewards. Must get the good, grass fed milk.
A line of cars in the middle lane blocked me in the far-left lane. I had to get over. Less than a mile before my exit. I dropped my automatic into second gear, flipped off the air conditioned defrost, and floored it. Engine whined like it would give up the ghost, but it never has before.
The car pushed forward, but no breaks in the line of cars. I turned on my turn signal and tried to squeeze in. The car behind me closed the distance until the two cars on that side were bumper to bumper. I tapped the brake to sneak in behind that lady in the red minivan.
She looked me dead in the eyes and Slowed Down.
We were side by side. I had a choice to speed up, slow more, or try to ram her off the road. I punched the gas. So did the smiling woman in the red minivan. Doom.
No matter what I did, she wouldn’t let me get over. She kept making eye contact and laughing. The exit I needed floated past. Then the minivan sped up enough I could slide closer to an exit lane.
I have a dash cam, and I took a picture of her license plate. I had friends in high places who could quietly get me info. Not that I was a violent person, but every so often violence has been a problem-solver in my life.
I took the next off ramp. Construction for miles and miles. One lane in parts navigated by an automated traffic light at each end of the stretch.
Where you would just sit and wait while a stream of cars rolled past from the other direction, then you had this tiny window of time when drivers in front of you couldn’t find the gas pedal. Nearly an hour later, I walked into the best grocery store. The place was a madhouse with people blocking entire lanes staring at boxes of mac and cheese like they all different.
Big snow. So I got three giant five-pound bins of trail mix. The kids loved it, and nutritionally it wasn’t a complete protein, but I needed happy kids. And I didn’t need to cook it.
Two loaves of bread and three half-gallons of grass fed milk. All the essentials plus black licorice of every type they had. I needed it.
I drove home in the left-hand lane, and the speedometer hovered around one hundred miles per hour. That exact same red minivan pulled up beside me. Same lady, same stare, same cackling laughter. She obviously had the intent to block me in again.
Just chilling right there next to me matching my speed. What did I ever do to the blonde lady in a parka?
I stood on the brakes and got behind her. I pushed the little button on my dash cam to take stills, even though it’d been pushed earlier.
I made it home, and hubby and the kids were happy for the large supplies of trail mix. I emailed the picture of my new nemesis to my cousin, the county clerk. She replied back with an address and name. I grabbed a baseball bat and headed out. None of my kids played baseball, I just had the bat. Not sure where it came from. Maybe a used sporting goods store or someplace. Zombie apocalypse preparedness.
I pulled up at her house and honked my horn, until my nemesis stepped out.
I climbed out of my vehicle with the bat in hand. “You!”
“Yes, me,” she replied. “Maybe next time when somebody tries to pass you, you’ll let them.”
“Pass me! You were on my right.”
She seemed to notice the bat for the first time. “Yes, because you were putzing along in the left lane.”
Putzing! Putzing! Time for the bat. I rushed her.
She pulled a low caliber pistol out and winged me on the right thigh. Bullets hurt. Even small ones. I went down.
She phoned authorities. I ended up temporarily in a wheelchair in jail. Third time in county lockup for me.
I was going through the food lines, and some woman I swear wearing that same parka, cut me off. I almost jumped her. Almost. Likely would have hurt me more, with the leg. Leg hurt bad when I wasn’t jumping people.
We never did get that Big Snow they promised.