this was maybe a week ago…

“Do you smell onions?” I asked Sara as we drove onto the Golden Gate Bridge.

“Yes,” Sara said. “That’s weird.” Sarah is my friend’s brother’s fiance. I’d stayed at her and her fiance, Andrew’s apartment the night before, and was driving her into San Francisco from Oakland so she could get to her school downtown and I could do some drive-by sightseeing.

We crossed the Golden Gate and I dropped Sara at her school. She gave me directions to the Bay Bridge, which would take me on my way to Los Angeles.

On the way through the downtown area, a man on a Kawasaki motorcycle cut me off. I gave him the finger.

The motorcyclist parked his bike in front of my car and got off. I rolled up my window and locked my doors. He stormed up to my door and screamed, “GET OUT OF THE CAR!”

I didn’t. Later, I would reflect that the man sounded a lot like Christian Bale.

He screamed again. “GET OUT! GET OUT OF THE FUCKIN CAR!”

He kicked my door.

I tried to pull forward and get away, but the bike was in the way. I tapped its rear wheel, then reversed. I pulled my car into the righthand lane, cutting off an older man in a white car, then pulled into traffic. The motorcyclist got back on his bike, and followed.

I saw a police officer on a moped and pointed at him. I stopped, and the policeman dismounted. I pointed at the cyclist, and the cop signaled for him to stop.

The man got off his bike and screamed, “HE HIT MY BIKE!”

I got out of my car.

“Could you remove your helmet?” the policeman said to the motorcyclist.

The man took off his helmet and repeated, “He hit my bike.”

The officer walked around the bike, inspecting. There was no damage.

The older man in the white car had pulled over down the road. The officer went to him and asked questions I could not hear.

“Do you want me to move my car out of traffic?” I shouted to the officer.

“No, leave it,” he told me.

I went to my car and turned on my hazard lights. The officer continued to talk to the older man. I stood by his moped.

“After we’re done here, I’ll meet you down the road, okay?” the motorcyclist said to me.

“No,” I said.

THe officer let the older man in the white car leave. He came up to me.

“What happened?” he said.

“This guy cut me off and I gave him the finger,” I said. “He parked his bike ion front of my car and came at my door. I locked the door and rolled up my window because he looked like he was going to hit me. He was screaming for me to get out of th ecar. He kicked my door. I had to reverse to get away. I did cut off that other man when I was trying to get away. When I did, this guy followed me. I saw you and pointed at you because you’re a police officer.”

“Okay,” the officer said. “Why don’t you get going?”

“Thing is,” I said, “he just said he’d meet me down the road after we were done here, so I don’t know how safe I am.”

“Okay. You take a hike. I’ll stay here with him.”

“Okay,” I said. “Thank you.”

I got in my car and pulled into traffic.

On the way out of San Francisco, I smelled cooking hamburger.

Internet access has been sparse. I’m already overtime at a tourist center I paid for. I’ll blog again when I can.

My question: What is the moral of the above story?

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