loodvig
03-03-2007, 11:03 AM
Hughie, a Boston barkeep, called as a public service, he explained, wanting others to know “how road rage can bite you back when you least expect it,” as it did to him a week ago in Peabody.
The more he talked, however, the more it sounded as if he were still beating up on himself.
At 57, the former Marine sergeant admits he’s a little long in the tooth to be lugging a chip on his shoulder, “Yet I have all this anger inside me. When I had my heart attack two years ago people said it would change me, but it didn’t.”
cw0He was in a line of traffic on Centennial Drive when he noticed a plow coming up behind him.
“It’s on a Ford F-250,” he recalls. “It’s covering my whole rear-view mirror. Next thing I know, it hits me: boom! I look in my other mirror and see this kid at the wheel, a young guy, who appears to be saying, ‘I’m sorry.’ And I am furious, thinking, ‘Yeah, yeah, yeah, I’ll bet you’re sorry.’ So I stick my hand out and wave for him to follow me into this lot near a bank, next to a cancer treatment center. And I’m waving in a way that lets him know I am not very happy.
“I jump out, look at my car, see there’s no damage, but I still want to get my ounce of flesh from this kid, so I start screaming: ‘If you can’t drive that damn thing, park it!’ While I’m ranting, this young guy I think I’m yelling at steps out and now I can see it’s a young woman, with the biggest blue eyes I’ve ever seen, crying her heart out.
“She’s saying, ‘You’re right. It’s my father’s truck. I’ve never driven it before, but my husband was late coming home and I had to get to my appointment.’ Now I can see that her powder blue sweatshirt is hanging on her, and even though she’s wearing a hat I can see that her hair’s been affected. She’s obviously a pretty sick kid. So I point to the cancer place and ask, ‘Are you going in there?’ She just nods, crying too hard to talk.”
Hughie’s own voice was beginning to quiver as he continued.
“I didn’t know what to say, so I told her, ‘Hey, really, you’re a good driver.’ That didn’t help. Then I said, ‘I did the breast cancer walk last year,’ which was true; after my heart attack I did a lot of walking. I’m almost begging, ‘Please, don’t cry, it’s OK.’ When she started to hug me it felt like God was slapping me in the face.
“I hugged her back, told her she’d better get to her appointment, wished her well, then walked away with my tail between my legs.”
That night he called the number she had given him and ended up talking with her father, “apologizing, telling him what a jerk I was. He was great about it, even laughing when I told him what a wonderful driver his daughter was.”
Now a week has gone by, “and I can’t get her out of my mind,” he says. She made more than just an impression on him; indeed, she might even have made a difference, too.
“On my way to work,” he explains, “people still cut me off, like they always do around here. But I’ve been nice, waving them on, thinking, ‘How do I know what their lives are like, or where they might be going?’
“I used to glare at them, but now I picture her and ask myself again, ‘What the hell was I thinking?’
“I don’t remember ever feeling as bad I did that day, knowing how defeated I made her feel.”
Hughie insisted he wasn’t expecting a column, but if his story warranted one he vowed he would send a copy to her.
In that case, lady, please be assured we join him in wishing you well.
“This kid did what my heart attack couldn’t,” he marveled. “I think she mellowed me. Here it is, a week later, and I still feel like I was touched by an angel.”
The above was written by Joe Fitzgerald of the Boston Herald.
The more he talked, however, the more it sounded as if he were still beating up on himself.
At 57, the former Marine sergeant admits he’s a little long in the tooth to be lugging a chip on his shoulder, “Yet I have all this anger inside me. When I had my heart attack two years ago people said it would change me, but it didn’t.”
cw0He was in a line of traffic on Centennial Drive when he noticed a plow coming up behind him.
“It’s on a Ford F-250,” he recalls. “It’s covering my whole rear-view mirror. Next thing I know, it hits me: boom! I look in my other mirror and see this kid at the wheel, a young guy, who appears to be saying, ‘I’m sorry.’ And I am furious, thinking, ‘Yeah, yeah, yeah, I’ll bet you’re sorry.’ So I stick my hand out and wave for him to follow me into this lot near a bank, next to a cancer treatment center. And I’m waving in a way that lets him know I am not very happy.
“I jump out, look at my car, see there’s no damage, but I still want to get my ounce of flesh from this kid, so I start screaming: ‘If you can’t drive that damn thing, park it!’ While I’m ranting, this young guy I think I’m yelling at steps out and now I can see it’s a young woman, with the biggest blue eyes I’ve ever seen, crying her heart out.
“She’s saying, ‘You’re right. It’s my father’s truck. I’ve never driven it before, but my husband was late coming home and I had to get to my appointment.’ Now I can see that her powder blue sweatshirt is hanging on her, and even though she’s wearing a hat I can see that her hair’s been affected. She’s obviously a pretty sick kid. So I point to the cancer place and ask, ‘Are you going in there?’ She just nods, crying too hard to talk.”
Hughie’s own voice was beginning to quiver as he continued.
“I didn’t know what to say, so I told her, ‘Hey, really, you’re a good driver.’ That didn’t help. Then I said, ‘I did the breast cancer walk last year,’ which was true; after my heart attack I did a lot of walking. I’m almost begging, ‘Please, don’t cry, it’s OK.’ When she started to hug me it felt like God was slapping me in the face.
“I hugged her back, told her she’d better get to her appointment, wished her well, then walked away with my tail between my legs.”
That night he called the number she had given him and ended up talking with her father, “apologizing, telling him what a jerk I was. He was great about it, even laughing when I told him what a wonderful driver his daughter was.”
Now a week has gone by, “and I can’t get her out of my mind,” he says. She made more than just an impression on him; indeed, she might even have made a difference, too.
“On my way to work,” he explains, “people still cut me off, like they always do around here. But I’ve been nice, waving them on, thinking, ‘How do I know what their lives are like, or where they might be going?’
“I used to glare at them, but now I picture her and ask myself again, ‘What the hell was I thinking?’
“I don’t remember ever feeling as bad I did that day, knowing how defeated I made her feel.”
Hughie insisted he wasn’t expecting a column, but if his story warranted one he vowed he would send a copy to her.
In that case, lady, please be assured we join him in wishing you well.
“This kid did what my heart attack couldn’t,” he marveled. “I think she mellowed me. Here it is, a week later, and I still feel like I was touched by an angel.”
The above was written by Joe Fitzgerald of the Boston Herald.