Vaughn’s face grew red; he was angry and uneasy. “Think I’d rather wait here.” He shut the engine off.
“Oh, that was cute,” the man snapped. He seemed drunk.
St. Patrick’s Day… piss-poor excuse for a holiday.
Vaughn turned away and rolled up the window. He glanced at the shops, hoping he’d see his wife and daughter.
The other driver shouted something else, which Vaughn couldn’t hear. He stared at the control panel of his Acura, thinking that if he ignored the guy he’d go away.
Come on, he thought to his family, growing angry at them for putting him in this position.
It was then that he glanced toward his right, into the street, and saw that the door on the battered car was open. Where-
A rush of motion from the sidewalk. Vaughn’s car door was jerked open before he could reach the door-lock button.
The driver was leaning down, directly in Vaughn’s face. With a steam of drunken, smoky breath between them, the man said, “Listen up, asshole. I don’t need anybody to dis me like that. The hell you think you are?”
Vaughn fixed his eyes on the scruffy man. Not in great shape, but big. Both scared and angry, Vaughn said, “I’m not leaving until my family’s here. Live with it.”
“Live with it? I’ll give you something to live with.” He flicked away a cigarette and ran his key along the side of the Acura, scraping off a line of paint.
“That’s it!” Vaughn pulled his cell phone from his pocket, hit 9-1-1.
A police dispatcher came on immediately. “This is nine-one-one. What’s the nature of your emergency?”
“I’m being attacked. Please send somebody-”
“You prick,” the assailant muttered and reached for him, but Vaughn leaned back into the car.
“Your name, sir?” the dispatcher asked. “What’s your address?”
“Charles Vaughn… I live in Lincoln but I’m in my car at Faneuil Hall, near Williams-Sonoma. He’s drunk, he’s attacking me. I-”
The big man lunged forward, snatched the phone away, and flung it to the sidewalk, where it shattered. Bystanders jumped back, though most stayed close-to watch whatever was going to happen next. A couple of drunk teenagers laughed and started chanting, “Fight, fight, fight.”
The man gripped Vaughn’s jacket and tried to pull him out of the car.
“Get off me!” Vaughn gripped the wheel and the men played tug of war until a siren sounded nearby, getting closer.
Thank God…
The assailant, his face red with rage, let go and stood frozen for a moment, as if he was wondering what else he could do to Vaughn. He settled for repeating, “You prick,” and ran back to his car. He spun the wheels in reverse, disappearing around the corner. Vaughn strained his neck looking back but he couldn’t see the license plate.
Hands shaking, breath ticking with the fright, Vaughn felt weak with fear and dread.
The police arrived and took a statement, made a note of the incident and the damage to the car. Vaughn was giving them what information he could remember when another thought occurred to him. His voice faded.
“What, sir?” an officer asked, noticing the businessman’s troubled face.
“He heard me give nine-one-one my name. And where I lived. The town, I mean. Do you think he’ll try to find me to get even?”
The police didn’t seem concerned. “Road rage, or parking rage, whatever, it never lasts very long. I don’t think you’re in any danger.”
“Besides,” one officer added, nodding at the damage to the paint, “looks like he already did get even.”
The police talked to passersby-with less enthusiasm than Vaughn would have liked-but nobody had gotten the man’s tag number-or was willing to admit it if they had. Then another call came in on their radio-another fight in progress.
“St. Paddy’s Day,” one of the officers spat out, shaking his head. They hurried off.
“You okay?” one of the bystanders asked.
“Yeah, thanks,” Vaughn said, not feeling the least bit okay. He ran his hand across the long scratch in the paint. He kept replaying the incident. Had it been his fault? Should he have given the guy the space? Of course not. But how had he sounded? Was he abrupt, insulting? He hadn’t thought so, certainly hadn’t meant to be.
Finally his wife and daughter returned from the hall, toting several small bags. They noticed the damage to the car and the pieces of Vaughn’s cell phone sitting in the backseat.
“What happened, honey?”
He explained to them.
“Oh, Dad, no! Are you all right?”
“Fine. Just get in.”
He locked the doors and drove away fast. On the turnpike Vaughn checked the rearview mirror every few seconds. But he saw no sign of the attacker’s car. His wife and daughter chatted away as if nothing had happened. Vaughn was quiet, upset about the incident. And the anger-at them and at himself-wasn’t going away.
When they were a few miles from home Judy asked, “Something wrong, honey? You’re not still bothered by that crazy man, are you?”
“No,” he said. “I’m just a little tired.”
“Don’t worry,” she said. “It’s just paint. They can fix it up like new.”
Sometimes women just didn’t get it at all.
“Oh, Dad,” his daughter said urgently, “can we stop at Beth’s? I want to give her the necklace.”
“No.”
“But it’s right up there.”
“I said no.”
“But-”
“No,” he snapped. “You’ll see her at school tomorrow.”
The girl wasn’t happy-the friend’s house was, after all, on the way home-but Vaughn wouldn’t change his mind.
When they arrived at home he pulled his wife aside and told her his big concern-that the man had heard Vaughn mention his name and the town they lived in.
“Oh.” Now Judy seemed miffed. His impression was that she was upset he’d gotten into the fight in the first place and hadn’t just given the guy the parking space, then double-parked to wait for them. As if it was male ego that’d caused the problem.
He came a millisecond away from reminding her that their last-minute shopping spree was the ultimate cause of the whole thing, but self-preservation kicked in and he managed to restrain himself. He said, “The police don’t think it’s anything to worry about. But just keep an eye out.” He described the man.
“Keep an eye out,” she muttered, and walked off silently to make dinner.
Vaughn didn’t eat much that night (his excuse was that his stomach was upset from the fast food they’d had for lunch, which his wife had ordered-a fact he managed to work into his explanation, with some petty satisfaction).