Ashland Avenue, 7:55am

He's driving a decade-old Buick LeSabre, maroon with a cream top, and he's in the lane next to me as we point southward on Ashland Avenue.

It's 7:55am, and traffic is relentless. I'm used to it now, as I've been driving my daughter to school every weekday for many months, and I am always on this stretch of Ashland at 7:55am, unless I'm behind schedule, which can be caused by heavy northbound traffic on Lakeshore Drive or a reluctance of a certain somebody to urinate prior to leaving the house.

In any case, I'm on time, but moving predictably slowly. This guy next to me, however, is late. Of this I am sure.

First off, Melvin - let's call him Melvin because we can - is wearing a black and white patterned sport coat. Not really checkered, not really striped, not really houndstooth, not really anything. But it is extremely black and white. His hair is brown and longish in the back and on the sides. In the front it's too short, so overall it looks like a Beatles haircut that has slid a few inches down the back of his head. Marvin's window is open, which is only odd because it's about 12 degrees out (with a possible wind-chill of 5, Bill).

Melvin is so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so mad.

We're stopped behind a handful of cars at a red light when I first notice him. I'm minding my own business, flipping between NPR and a rock/pop morning show ("Call if you've ever had a date forget your name!" - that kind of morning show; the kind of morning show I am embarrassed to say I listen to, but do; the kind of morning show that gives my brain a rest instead of a wakeup call; the kind of morning show that is the orange juice in my NPR mimosa). Suddenly, I hear a muffled noise, somewhere between a moan and a scream: "Gooooooooo!!!!!"

I turn the radio down.

"Goooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!!!!!!!!!"

I look to my right. And there he is. Melvin in his shocking jacket. Just as described above. Only, at this precise moment, he is pulling his hair out at the sides and knocking his head against the head rest. He's a bit of a sight. I face forward.

"Goooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!!!!!!!!!"

I look again. He is pretty much standing in his car now. He must have all of his weight on the break, poor thing, and he is as vertical as possible, his back arched and his head cocked back so that his forehead is actually touching the ceiling of his car. I didn't know that was even possible.

"Gooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!!!!!!!!!!" he pleads, to no one in particular. Perhaps to his personal god, a personal god whom I hope is able to keep that vein in his neck from exploding. His window is open, after all, and our car shows blood very easily.

I look straight ahead as the light turns to green and we all lurch forward in unison. He must be happier now, I think to myself as we press on. At least we're moving. I turn to confirm only to find Melvin actually driving with his face in his hands. I don't know if I can do this justice, but the man his hunched up over the steering wheel, driving with his forearms, with both palms on his cheeks. He is sort of pulling his face off while yelling, "OHHHH MYYYYY GODDDDDDDD!!!!"

We all stop at the next red light.

He once again stands and screams.

Then Melvin yells something I can't quite understand, but it definitely has the words now!, because!, late! and, I think, bacon! in it. Boy, is he ever grumpy.

As we cross Lawrence, Melvin turns off to try some alternate route. I'm tempted to follow just for the blogginess of it all, but I decide against it.

I know how I get when I'm running late.