The Tailgater and the Very Unmarked Car

I was doing exactly the speed limit in the right lane on the highway, because a car ahead of me had its blinker on and I was leaving room for it to merge. Behind me, a man in a big pickup decided this was a personal insult.

He rode my bumper so close I could not see his headlights, only the grille. He flashed his high beams. He laid on the horn. He gestured. I did not speed up, partly out of principle and partly because there was, again, a car merging in front of me that I could plainly see and he apparently could not.

Finally he could not take it anymore. He swung into the left lane, floored it, pulled alongside me, rolled down his window, and delivered a truly heartfelt gesture and a shout I could not hear but could certainly interpret. Then he cut back in, hard, right in front of the car I had been so politely letting merge.

That car was a plain grey sedan with no markings. As the pickup cut it off, the grey sedan calmly lit up. Red and blue, behind the grille, in the windshield. It had been an unmarked patrol car the entire time, waiting to merge, watching this man tailgate, honk, swerve, and cut off a vehicle in front of an officer.

The lights came on, the pickup's brake lights came on, and both of them peeled off onto the shoulder about a mile up. I passed them at exactly the speed limit. The man was already out of his truck, hands spread, explaining. I did not wave. I felt that would be unkind, and I only permitted myself one small, private smile that lasted the rest of the drive.