Larry is a born and bred Jersey boy and we were good friends in college. He was in town for a business trip and I planned to pick him up at his hotel near the airport and take him to my favorite Italian place on Sunrise Blvd for dinner.
I had not seen Larry since his wedding many years before and now, as I waited for him to come out of the hotel I felt somewhat inadequate because based on his FaceBook picture he had changed so little since college whereas I, well — never mind. Now, as I waited for my tall, lean college buddy; I was considerably surprised when New Jersey Governor Chris Christie opened the car door and slid in. “Dude!” said Larry, clapping me hard on the shoulder, “you look like hell!”
I wanted to ask the Governor if he knew where my friend was, but what I said,”Larry! So good to see you!” And we were off.
As we merged onto I-95 Larry told me that dinner was his treat; I tried to protest but he loudly overwhelmed me so I simply said,”Thanks!” This made me remember that Larry and I had been in a debate class in college and I always made sure we were on the same team. I am a horrible debater; if someone looks me in the eye and speaks forcefully enough I will crumble immediately. But Larry was a great debater: if it was his job to argue that the world was flat he would dig in his heels and argue until the other side finally gave up in sheer exhaustion. His aggressive personality served him well in his career as an attorney, and may even be the norm in New Jersey, but as it turned it almost got us killed driving down I-95 in South Florida during rush hour.
First off we got stuck driving behind a car that was going 30 miles an hour with its left indicator blinking. The car was an ancient Buick with a silk flower on the antennae and no head visible above the driver seat. I sighed and waited for my chance to change lanes but Larry unexpectedly leaned over and pressed down on my horn with full force, causing me to veer sharply to the left, narrowly missing the brown Toyota Corolla in that lane. “What are you doing?” I asked, my heart beating wildly.
‘They need to speed up,” said Larry, his hand still on my steering wheel. “I’m hungry.”
I pushed his hand away. “Look at that car,” I told him. “The driver is probably 108 years old. Do you want her to have a stroke?”
“Fucking geriatrics,” Larry said bitterly. “This is why I fucking hate Florida.:
We drove in silence but then a minute later we were behind a black Cadillac Escalade going 35 miles an hour in the left lane and weaving erratically. As I passed the Cadillac to the right, Larry laid on the horn again, leaned over me and showed his middle finger to the driver.
”Are you trying to get us killed?” I said, with some heat, reflecting that grabbing someone’s steering wheel was as inappropriate as grabbing their spouse. I started to explain that the Escalade was probably occupied by a well-armed drug dealer who was coordinating his next deal via text message and would nonchalantly shoot anyone who got in his way or pissed him off, but then the vehicle in front of me, an old, Ford pickup slowed unexpectedly and I had to jam on my breaks. Predictably, Larry reached for the horn but I was ready and pushed him away.
“Dude,” I said, panting slightly, “that truck has a Confederate flag decal on the back window and a pit bull in the truck bed. I guarantee you that the driver has more tattoos than the Ramrod Bar on a Saturday night and he could have our bodies dumped in the Everglades in less time than it’s taking us to drive to dinner.” I was all wound up to say more but I bit my tongue and Larry and I drove on in an awkward silence.
Larry spoke first. “I’m not very hungry after all,” he said frostily. “Would you mind taking me back to the hotel?”
“Not a problem,” I said shortly, and looked for my chance to make a U-turn on I-95.