Macroaggression

My lane is morphing fast into right-turn only. The truck behind doesn’t see or pay attention to my blinker; just enough time and space to slip in without making the guy hit his breaks, but tight. We sit at the red light, the truck right up to my bumper. It sits too high to see the driver, but I can guess he’s pissed. Yeah, yeah, I should have waited for you to pass. But you should have let me in. The light turns green and, when I go through the intersection, the truck follows, staying a little too close behind. I turn right, and the truck turns too. I’m heading to Dick’s Sporting Goods to meet my son for a holiday shopping date. Maybe I should have turned left at the stop sign and made my way to the correct lane and turned in there—Avery leaning his hip on the front of his car, head down looking at his phone—but I am sick of having the truck on my tail so cut across the empty lot. I pull into the space just to the left of Avery’s car. The truck speeds up just as I am opening the door, no more than a foot away. This angry white guy is staring at me through the window. Without thinking, I raise my hands. What the fuck? By the time I’ve climbed out of the car, the guy is out of the truck, heading in my direction. He’s a big dude. I look over at Avery, who is watching the scene play out, an arched eyebrow that says, What up? When I turn back, the guy is up in my face. “Why’d you do that?” “Do what?” “Open your door like that.” “I didn’t know you were pulling into the spot.” “Yes, you did.” I’m not backing down—Avery has moved a few steps our way—but I’m not trying to escalate either. I say, pointing at the big box store: “I’m just trying to go to Dick’s.” “So am I,” the guy says. I want to call bullshit—he isn’t here to shop—but hold my tongue. Luckily, the guy lets it drop and turns back to the truck—still no sign of the driver—so I walk over to Avery. But the guy must have turned back, for I can hear him snarl: “Next time we’ll take off your fucking door.” Avery asks: “What’d you do?” I keep walking, motioning Avery to join me. “Just pissed him off, I guess.” When we get into the store, Avery pauses and looks out. “They’ve already left.” As we shop, I wonder if we’ll have a reprise. But when we get back to the cars, my tires aren’t punctured nor the side of the car keyed. Nothing. Avery drives off to his next thing. The whole way home, I watch for black trucks in the rear view. Later, I talk to Avery about the whole thing. He listens as I lay out better alternatives to the actions I modeled. He says, “I might have acted that way too,” Pausing, then: “If I knew I could back it up.” It makes me wonder why the guy let me off the hook. Honestly, I don’t know. Another white guy? That Avery was watching the whole thing? Maybe it's that the damage was already done. He had shown me—my son—what would happen if I stepped out of line. Don’t get in my way, he told me in no uncertain tone. Or I’ll track you down and make you pay.