A few people who drive me insane

This summer, I'm doing the unthinkable - I'm working a 9-5 job.

There are many benefits to being a working stiff. The weekends are free, and there's enough time during the weekdays to have a little fun before going to bed at 10 p.m. Unfortunately, being a working Joe carries a severe penalty - rush hour traffic.

I set out for work at about 7 a.m. - just me, Howard Stern and the open road. I cruise down a nearly empty State Street, wishing it could be this desolate all day long.

But before Howard can crack his first Rosie O'Donnell fat joke of the day, I have to merge onto I-94.

This is when the hell begins. I turn on my blinker and speed up. I only have about 100 feet, so I need to move quickly.

Of course, the driver to my left, who I'll call Speedy, pretends he does not see me trying to avoid crashing into the upcoming sign. He doesn't slow down or accelerate to give me room to move over. He drives exactly at my speed.

What is going through his mind? Does he think I'm just going to disappear? His refusal to acknowledge my car's presence forces me to slam the brakes and risk an accident.

Luckily, I avoid disaster and continue to my destination. But then I am confronted by another automotively challenged person - the Reader. He's about 25 years old, and he's also singing along to an obscenely loud Backstreet Boys tune.

The Reader has a magazine open and propped against his steering wheel as he drives. He drifts into my lane, more engrossed in his rag than the road.

Again, I test the strength of my brakes, but this time I have enough time to make ridiculously rude and obscene gestures out the window.

Unfortunately, the Reader keeps on reading, probably riding to a mediocre job with little room for advancement. He'll probably end up a 50-year-old unmarried furniture salesman who lives in the small one-room house on the corner, shunned by his neighbors.

As hideous as the Reader and Speedy may be, one other driving persona grates my nerves more than anyone. While many names may describe him, I will refer to him as Mid Life Crisis.

We've all seen this 40-year-old schmuck cruising down the highway in his red convertible - the midlifecrisismobile. Sure, his car may have been funded by his kids' college savings, but he's leaving his wife for a 22-year-old blond Starbucks coffee server, so family doesn't really matter.

As he speeds down the highway with his toupee blowing in the wind, he blasts the timeless hits of Sonny Bono or Bruce Springsteen. Although the road is pretty crowded, he does not pay much attention to his neighbors on the road. When he decides to merge into the left lane, he neglects to use his signal, taking me by complete surprise.

This is what bugs me more than anything. Is it that difficult to use your signal? Is it uncool to flick a switch? It must not fit in with the daredevil image Mid Life Crisis is trying to maintain. In the future, he plans to not come to a four-point halt at stop signs. These people need to be cognizant of my few needs as a fellow driver. I don't ask for much. All I want is a ride to work and a few uninterrupted laughs from Howard.

- Jeffrey Kosseff can be reached over e-mail at jkosseff@umich.edu.

Jeffrey Kosseff Sweet New Style

05-24-99