Traffic Life : Passionate Tales and Exit Strategies
Edited by Stephan Wehner
An Anthology
 
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6 Frogspawn Man versus the Boy Racers full of memories of my father seven years old again. I stand by the side of the road next to the traffic lights and wait for my lift home. Suddenly I realise that an inarticulate-sounding man in his mid twenties in some kind of penis extension car has wound down his window and is shouting abuse at me. The lights change- the glans glides off. Then another man makes a two fingered gesture at me. A car full of techno nerds turns down the techno and hurls a collective techno insult. The next time the light goes red a middle aged, middle class Southwick zip up jumper husband in a middle aged, middle class Southwick zip up jumper car draws up beside me and glares at me with undisguised contempt. He looks as though he would like to shout something but no-one from Southwick talks to strangers let alone shouts at them so he just glares at me. I stare back. I don't glare. I just stare. I am very puzzled. I check my person. I am fully clothed. My flies are done up. My mud spattered T-shirt bears the logo of an obscure folk band from Wigan. Does everyone really hate the Tansads that much?
  
Attila the Stockbroker 7 I am totally confused. It's a beautiful Spring day I am standing by the traffic lights on a West Sussex A road holding a bucket of frogspawn and suddenly everybody hates me! Another car hurtles past- occupants screaming abuse. Then the lights change again. A car draws up beside me. A very flashy, shiny one. The boy racer inside is shaking his head. He is gesturing to me as though I am about to do something totally unacceptable to something very important to him and he really doesn't want me to. I stand there. I gaze at him in absolute bewilderment. His window opens. Then his mouth. 'Bloody squeegee merchant. Don't you touch my fucking car. Piss off and get a fucking job!' I look at him in astonishment. What has he just said? Then I realise. I am standing by the traffic lights. I am holding a bucket. He thinks I am about to start cleaning his car windscreen without his permission. I walk over to the car. I tip the bucket up slightly and proffer the contents to him. It is his turn to be confused. He's a boy racer.

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