PHOTOGRAPHY: GIUSEPPE SANTAMARIA.THE COLUMNIST
My wife calls 911 and
puts the dispatcher on
speaker phone. Does he
have a weapon? Is anybody
hurt? Where are you? Can
you describe him? What’s his
licence plate? OK, the police
are on their way.
As we wait, locked
in the car, my mood
changes from panic to
anger. Anger that I’m being made to feel
impotent when as a man, as a father, as a son,
I should be able to protect my family. Against
everybody’s wishes, I get out to reason with
him. I inspect our cars. Not a scratch on mine
but sure enough, his clapped out sedan is all
dinged up. He’s attempting to get me to pay
for pre-existing damage, the chancer. And
from the scratches on his wing, it’s obvious he
collided with a white car. Mine is black. How
much does he want? He thinks. “$300.” Fuck
off. But if I’d had any cash on me, I probably
would’ve given it him.
I have two babies crying in the car, I tell
him, elderly parents scared half to death. My
dad, a retired vicar, had a heart attack last
year. None of this moves him. The police
are on their way, I say. He gives zero shits.
When the NYPD finally show up, he sticks
with his story, as ludicrous as it is. It takes
the officers no time at all to figure out what
is going on and they threaten to arrest him
unless he gets in his car right now and drives
on. Reluctantly, he does. It’s over.
I’m shaken, we all are. But I’m also seething
as I drive home. Still seething now as I write all
this down. It’s kept me awake these past couple
of nights, replaying it in my mind. Did I do
the right thing? Did I put my family in more
danger? Could I have handled this better?
There’s no pithy ending to this. I just
don’t know.L
et me set
the scene.
It’s Su nday
afternoon.
We’re
driving
back to Manhattan
from a family day trip,
apple picking at a farm
in upstate New York,
the leaves at their most
spectacularly autumnal. It’s been picture-
perfect. My father, a reverend in his late
seventies, and his wife, my stepmother, are
snoozing in the car, as is my wife and our
17-month-old twin daughters. I’d hired a
people carrier for the weekend – a Cadillac
Escalade, all-blacked out, all-tricked out,
alloy wheels. Pretty fly for a white guy.
We’re 20 minutes from home, weaving
through a sketchy part of Queens, when I find
myself stuck behind a vehicle waiting to turn.
So I indicate to move into the other lane.
I don’t see a car flying up the inside and we
very nearly collide. He was going too fast and
clearly didn’t want to let me out – bit of a dick
move – but fair play, I shouldn’t have pulled
into his path. My bad.
Though there was a screech of brakes,
we didn’t crash; there was no impact. But
everyone in the car has woken with a sudden
jolt and I can see in my rearview mirror
that the other driver is offering a robust and
animated critique of my driving. I raise my
hand in apology and keep my eye on him as
we drive on. At the next lights he pulls up
alongside me. I open my driver’s side window
part-way and again offer the calming palms
of placation, international sign language for
‘OK, OK, no harm done’. He eyeballs me
and then, as the lights turn green, swerves
aggressively into my lane to block me in.
We nearly crash again. He jumps out. Uh oh.Unfortunately, when you live in America,
the first questions that go through your mind
in such a situation are: ‘has he got a gun?’ And
‘are we about to die?’ I’m not keen on sticking
around to find out. I close the window and
begin to back up to manoeuvre around him
but the car behind is blocking me in. He’s now
standing at my wing mirror so that if I move
any further I will run him over.
He bangs on my window, bellowing
obscenities, and puts his foot underneath my
wheel. I consider driving over it, then think
of the lawsuit. Traffic builds up behind us,
horns honking. The girls whimper. I look at
my dad and I see a terrified old man. This
is on me.
The guy doesn’t appear to be carrying
a weapon so I open the window a crack.
The gist of it is – he says I crashed into him
and he wants money to pay for the damage.
What the... Oh, I get it, a shakedown,
literally a daylight robbery. I don’t know
whether it’s nerves or bravado, but I laugh
at him. This does not help.WHEN CHANCE
ENCOUNTERS
GO SOUTH.
COLUM
DAN ROOKWOOD70 GQ.COM.AU MEN OF THE YEAR 2017