There are two things I can count on during my drive to work. Both include trucks and crappy drivers. I’m in South Carolina, after all.

The first occurs when I pull out of my subdivision. Once a week, a half mile down the road on the right, I see a vehicle’s lights stop before leaving their subdivision. I get closer and see that it’s the green truck. I know what happens next.

The driver stays at the stop sign, and then, with just the slightest hair of margin left, pulls out in front of me to turn left. There’s never anyone behind me so they could easily wait for me to pass and have the road to themselves. Or they could leave while I’m still half a mile out. But it’s always the same thing: pull out such that I have to slow way down to miss them. Why? It’s maddening.

The second thing I can count on comes in the form of a silver jacked-up Ford four-door pickup. Big tires and loud. He finds me twice a week or so on our thirty mile drive through rural South Carolina on our way to work. I know it’s them by the growing headlights in my rear view mirror. They’re coming up fast.

I usually drive at about the speed limit or just under. They drive about 90 mph and will finally slow down about 10 feet behind me. When the road and traffic allow, there are rules for safe driving you know, they pass me going from 50 to 90 in the length of my car.

I hope like heck that I never have to sort through their phone for a loved one’s number.

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