Put Down The Phone

An obese thirtysomething wielding a silver Lexus SUV nearly knocked me off my bicycle on Brooklyn Bridge Boulevard today. That stretch of road has a green path on the right with white spray-painted bike icons (bicons?) every ten yards, but that didn't stop this douche from veering into my lane as if to "peek" around the mass of traffic ahead. Compressed between him & an illegally parked mail truck, I pounded on the side of his car to avoid being crushed. He glanced right and I saw the cellphone on his ear. He jerked back into his lane, then veered out once again. I passed him and made an extra effort not to look in his direction.

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.