for part 1, click hereIt wasn't the beer that did it, but it was the beer that kept it going.
I was coming back from the store with a few six packs of beer in my car and a happy smile on my face. Driving under the warm glow of a mid afternoon Santa Fe sun, thoughts of Monday's seminar bubbling in my head as Amorphis (Elegy!) rocked the stereo. I turned a corner off the main road and onto Camino Cruz Blanca as the school crested into view.
Suddenly a car swerved into view behind me, a big, gas sucking SUV, honking its horn and riding up on my ass like a hopeful high schooler at the Winter Formal. Instinctively I sped up, to no avail, as the car came around and cut me off, actually forcing me off the road onto the gravel alongside. I slammed on my breaks, heart racing, as the monstrous truck slowed to a stop in front of me and then backed up, languidly rolling towards my front bumper. When it got within 10 feet, the car stopped. In my head, all sorts of crazy scenarios went off- was it the West Side Locos? Some random serial killer? Those jerks from the art college? Those damn soccer kids that I was always yelling at?
The window rolled down and a hand reached out. It slowly extended a middle finger and held it up against the sky. I was confused, but only for a moment. Its owner leaned his head out of the car and glared at me with an expression I had seen many times before, but never in real life. After a few moments passed he extended the finger even higher and took off, tires squealing, leaving a trail of dust as he passed St. John's and sped off towards the mountains behind the college.
For a moment, everything was clear. There was only me and him. Everything else passed into the background, washed away by the sheer hatred and rage that suffused his features- those cold eyes burning into my mind where they would remain to this day, 14 years later.
I would never forget that finger.
Or that face.
Gene Hackman, you son of a bitch.
But it wasn't over . . .
To be continued