The Other Side

The prior night to the story I’m about to tell, I was followed home by a couple of punks.  I was driving down Monmouth Road in Deal, NJ when I pulled up next to two young men in a Jeep Wrangler.  Needless to say, I was dancing like a woman to ‘I Get So Emotional’ unknowingly to their amusement.  When I turned my head left, they were laughing at me so I flipped them off.  They followed me and in fear of my own safety, I ripped off my shirt, slammed on the brakes, exited my car and stormed their Wrangler.  Surprisingly they sped away… as did I just the next day when a man who apparently had rabies almost took my life.

I was on the phone with Tim Stroebel, telling him about how I scared away two punks in varsity jackets by exposing the man-beast.  It was back in the day when getting a cellphone ticket while driving was unheard of.  I was holding the phone between my shoulder and ear, having a conversation and ordering a chicken sandwich from Burger King simultaneously.  By the time I got on Monmouth Road, my conversation with Tim was over and I began to unwrap the sandwich.  God it smelt good.  This was at the exact intersection where I had taken my shirt off the night before… and like the night before, I slammed on my brakes again… only this time for an unexpected red light.

You know that white line you’re not supposed to cross at an intersection?  Well half my car was over that line, making it slightly difficult for the Mustang coming from the intersecting street to get around me.  He makes a gesture for me to roll my window down as he creeps by slowly. He did that arm thing people do as if he knew my Cherokee still had manual windows.  I was mid bite at this point and figured he wanted to apologize for cutting it so close, so I rolled my window down.  “How could they give someone like you a license?” was the question he posed as his copilot, another 30-something year old man, laughed hysterically.

I was over the white line, but this prick was embarrassing me and clearly cut close to my car to make me look stupid in front of his friend.  “Oh really?” I asked with a mouth full of a chicken-mayo-bread puree.  “Really,” he answered back.  The driver was staring me down, enticing me to take action.  He was about 25 feet away and his window was open just enough.  I decided to take a chance.  Grabbing the only good thing about my day, I flung my chicken sandwich at his car.  What I didn’t expect was my accuracy, especially considering my mediocrity in baseball as a child.  The chicken sandwich missed the exterior of his car and made it inside the half-opened window.  I hit this mother fucker directly in his face.  My heart stopped as did his car.

It was as if a bomb went off.  His face was covered in fried chicken and sauce; I could barely make out his facial features.  I remember it becoming a reality for me when I saw the inside of his windshield caked in mayo.  “What the fuck” was the last thing I heard before he began his charge.  He flung his door open and stepped out, exposing his muscular build and his temporarily disfigured face.  I rolled up my window and locked my door as he lunged at my car.

If you’ve seen a zombie movie, they always include a car scene where the innocent, uninfected bystanders barely get the doors locked and windows closed before the attack.  His head hit first then his fist.  Over and over again he punched my window while he howled like the undead.  I started to laugh when I realized I was safe; once the light went green, I gave him the finger and got the fuck out of there.

I made it a few streets down and had to call Tim.  It had only been 15 minutes since I bragged about my heroics; now I was hiding in a stranger’s driveway, praying that ol’ Sandwich-Face wouldn’t find me because this time, exposing my chest hair would be useless.