I Guess That Makes Me The Jerk

It had been a hell of a day, in the best possible sense and the worst.  The end of a week hauling drywall.  I stepped outside of work into the the low, early August evening sun.  The Southie breeze whipped gypsum dust from my clothes and face.  I took a long time unlocking my bike, sucking on a cigarette, munching on crackers.  At last I slid on and dawdled over toward downtown, to Atlantic, to home.  The ride was easy and low, I dipped right onto Atlantic heading toward the Aquarium and picked up my pace.  The cars were few and far, the pedestrians milled in the crosswalks.  Giving them huge births I swayed through two lights at an easy clip, utilizing the full two lanes.  One of those moments of no care, where you’re alone, and the road is yours.  As State St. rolled toward I swung left, picking up just enough momentum on the turn to slip the light on the other side.  I strolled up the pothole moguls and into traffic, if there was a dotted white that’s where I would have been.  I moved easy and slow, pedestrians here are suicidal and step out at any moment.  I had to wait at Congress, but no matter, I was tired and could use a breath or two.  The light went green and I leapt out ahead, up off my saddle, leaning way out front, I pumped my way up the hill to Cambridge St. just squeaking through the light at the junction with Washington.  Up and onto Cambridge and flat ground, Government Center looming, its huge lot made idyllic by the farmer’s market.  The God of the weekend smiled on me all the way down Cambridge, all the lights were green, no cars pulled out, no tourists tried to kill me, I had a whole lane.  As I reached the Longfellow bridge, I darted to the left lane and as I approached the light it went red, but the right kinda red, I hit my pedals a couple times and I was across the crosswalk in plenty of time, without doing any harm, no traffic on the other side, I swung my hard left and up across the intersection and onto the sidewalk.  I took myself up the long ramp to the footbridge there, easing over to the Esplanade.  Over on the other side of Storrow the park was jammed.  The fair weather crowd was out, I knew I should’ve taken the bridge.  Nothing to do but go forward, I eased into the crowd.  Day cyclists and fair weather joggers crammed the bike path.  Students strolled in lazy gangs and families strolled with their broods and dogs.  The mood was light, and I tried to be one with it, not go to fast, not get worked up.  When in Rome right?  As I strode along toward Mass Ave, not long before, just past where they were building a new playground, a Statie in his fucking car came looming up the path.  He disrupted every thing.  People scrambled, dogs and toddlers were yanked.  As we came to each other he lumbered right giving me just about half of my lane.  I wove past, not hard, but inconvenient.  As we did, I said “Asshole” to my self, out loud.  As I tend to do.  I talk to myself too much.  I peddled on with that thought in my head.  That’s when I heard the “bwoop- bwoop”.  I knew instinctively what it was and pulled over to the grass, turning I saw the Statie, now blocking the entire bike path behind me with his car.  He flung his door wide and stepped out.  Adjusting his, I kid you not, mirrored aviator glasses, he walked up with a puss and a bone to pick, saying “hey, who’d you just call an ‘asshole’ back there, huh?  Who’s an asshole?  Did you call me an asshole back there huh?  Rapid fire and thoughtless.  Two girls sat on a bench just up to my left trying to ignore what was going on.  I instantly told him that ‘yes, I did, but I didn’t say it “to”him, I had said it about him, to myself’.  He scowled and balked.  He said ” You saw my window was open and said it right to my face, you were looking right at me!”   I hadn’t and I didn’t and I told him so reminding him that I had looked at the left side of his car to avoid getting hit by it.  I reiterated my previous position and swung my bag around.  He asked for my ID, I dug it out and passed it to him.  He went off to play with his computer to see my lack of a record and probably write something mean about me in some little file somewhere.  I enjoyed the moment, watching the sailboats dipping around on the Charles.  He came back, still with that puss and with a chip on his shoulder.  It may not have helped matters that I was a whole head taller than him and a bit older to boot.  He said “Mr. Scott, here.” he gave me my ID “You know, you think I’m the asshole, this is my job, I’m out here every day!” he jabbed his open palm with his other forefinger.  I told him I knew he has a hard job, but that cars have no place on the bike path.  He squirmed,”You really better wise up!” He waggled his finger.  I gave him an incredulous look with a smirk.  He wrinkled his puss at me and stormed off.  I don’t know, I knew he was right, but so was I.  The rest of my ride back to Allston was gorgeous, after Mass Ave. the foot traffic dissipated and the joggers thinned out.  I had a good laugh at the young Statie’s expense.  Trying to prove you’re not an ass hole, by threatening someone that you thought had just called you an asshole!  Priceless, sometimes I really do love cops!