Thirty seconds later on Atlantic Avenue he honked incessantly as he pulled up behind me at a busy intersection, courting me with a "what gives?" look; I wheeled up alongside his window.
"You were driving in the bike lane and nearly killed me!" He shrugged and mouthed, "Whatever" in slow motion. I pounded on his window and summoned my menacing face, "I took your fucking license plate number! I'm calling the cops right now! You're fucked!" He locked his doors. Of course I had no idea what his license plate number was. I rhythmically pounded an extended middle finger against his window. Some evidently drunk house painters driving by said, "Punch his hood, man, punch the hood!" I spat on his window instead, and rode off.
Within seconds, I heard a screech, followed by the dopplerized bleat of a speeding, honking car. He blasted past, blew a red light at Hicks, blew a red light at Henry, and came to jerky stop at the base of Atlantic Avenue where crossing traffic blocked his passage. I passed him again and made an extra effort not to look in his direction.