Karma

I'm in the left lane on Centre Ave, waiting to turn left on Negley. A man driving a silver Lexus SUV (not my father-in-law), talking on his cell phone, begins to honk angrily, even though the light is red. I can't help myself. I turn around.

"What? What is wrong?"

"Get on the [expletive] curb."

"The sidewalk is for walking! Read your driver's manual."

"Get in the [expletive] right lane!"

"I'm turning LEFT!!!!"

The light turns green, I turn left, and begin my way up Negley. There is traffic and many red lights. I move faster, on average, than the cars stuck in congestion. It is the sort of rush hour traffic that makes my dad call cities "the armpits of America." At each red light, I pedal past the angry man and give him the finger, since he is getting nowhere faster than me.

After a disastrous homecoming, locked out of my dwelling, Soupie intervenes and delivers keys to me. I lament my journey home. He commends my tenacity and reminds me that I am a homeowner and a tax payer. Those roads were paid for partially by me and my bike. As I hoist my inexpensive, environmentally-friendly, and speedy transportation into my house, I remember something. That angry SUV jerk is not only polluting the atmosphere, but his karma as well. I will have a good day, and he will have clogged arteries.

[See this great New York Times article, which shares my sentiments with more panache.]