A new variant of road rage is infecting the “power breakfast” crowd.
8 a.m. and I’m sitting in the parking lot of Bagel Beanery while my husband runs in for two asiago cheese, sliced, not toasted with cream cheese.
A little black Jetta pulls into the lot and lurches to a stop. The driver — blonde, tailored navy suit — eyes the line wrapping around the building, and the row of parking spaces, all occupied but one. Ah, the one is a mirage. A motorcycle sits there, just off center.
8 a.m. and I’m sitting in the parking lot of Bagel Beanery while my husband runs in for two asiago cheese, sliced, not toasted with cream cheese.
A little black Jetta pulls into the lot and lurches to a stop. The driver — blonde, tailored navy suit — eyes the line wrapping around the building, and the row of parking spaces, all occupied but one. Ah, the one is a mirage. A motorcycle sits there, just off center.
The gall of him, that motor cyclist — how dare he take an entire space for one little ...
I can hear her thoughts. Another woman leaves the Beanery, goes to her car.
Finally. The blond inches forward, then back realizing the car has to leave the spot for her to take it. But the woman is in no hurry.
The blond eyes the drive-thru line, the exit, and lurches forward again as if ready to jet back onto the street. Forget this bagel. She slams the brakes.
Finally. The blond inches forward, then back realizing the car has to leave the spot for her to take it. But the woman is in no hurry.
The blond eyes the drive-thru line, the exit, and lurches forward again as if ready to jet back onto the street. Forget this bagel. She slams the brakes.
If I knew how to read lips, I’d be getting an education in the profane.
Get going or I’m going to stick this mascara wand —
The other car pulls out and onto the road.
With a huff and more silent curses, the blonde zips into the vacated spot. Her heels puncture asphalt and her shoulder slams my husband’s as he holds the door.
Lady, it’s just a bagel.
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