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Massholes

Category: Ramblings

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Written by Teri Dunn Chace

For those of you who don’t live in Massachusetts, that means “Massachusetts driver.” Maybe it’s because I’ve been behind the wheel in a few other states this past year—California, Maine, Upstate NY—but it truly is different here. And it is freaking annoying!

Drivers in this state are so bad, so rude, and so aggressive, and I have been living here so long, that it’s almost wiser not to get upset. To just lower the bar, just grin and bear it, just take the high road.

But a column the other day in my very fine local newspaper, the Gloucester Daily Times, inspires me to put my fuming into words. The column was by local wag (“wag”!—you have to love this word! so much more fun than “smart ass”) Gordon Baird, and it was entitled “A little frontier justice in the Fishtown Driving Derby.” His rant was about a local practice of hogging not only your side of the road but aggressively forging ahead using the middle or even a goodly part of the oncoming lane when driving on narrow streets. Our streets here in Gloucester aren’t excessively narrow—though my bicycling sons lament the lack of adequate bike lanes—but they are often made so by parked cars. Navigating a road like that, with a few curves, takes skill. And if you are one of the drivers that annoyed Gordon, it takes an aggressive attitude. “They never think about the car who has to drive into the gutter to avoid them...they demand the five feet of extra room on their side.”

Oh, Gordon, honey, this is not the half of it.

Massholes drive like they are the only person on the road. Massholes drive like their destination and the need to get there immediately-if-not-sooner is paramount, and everyone and everything else be damned.

The state highway that leaves idyllic Cape Ann and descends west and south towards hectic Boston and its tangle of highways, shopping centers, malls, office parks, and crowded suburbs is called Rte. 128. It is standard practice on this road, both north and south of Boston, to speed up an entrance ramp and fly out into the right/slower lane—without so much as a backward glance. To drive it defensively, you might as well move over into the left/faster/passing lane and stay there, or if there are additional lanes, get as far from those ramps as possible. Until, of course, you approach your own destination exit, at which time you should slam on your brakes and dart over at the last possible moment, no matter what other drivers are doing. Oh, and by all means, don’t signal your intentions with a turn signal. No time for that! That’s the Masshole way!

However, if you choose to drive in the faster lane, you better go fast. But, bad news. Your fast is not fast enough! Personally, I and my Subaru wagon like to cruise along between 60 and 70—I have this perhaps amusing belief that driving just shy of 70 spares me a speeding ticket in a 55 mph zone, which is what most of the Boston-area highways are posted at. Well, this is just too darn slow and you will not last. A Masshole will fly up behind you and tailgate until you find an opportunity to scoot over, at which point they will angrily floor it, perhaps reaching 80 mph or more, until they find another unbearably slow driver in the fast lane obstructing their almighty progress.

This is not merely “road rage” here, folks, though those speeders certainly seem white-knuckled, impatient, and irritated. It is a teeth-gritting, high-speed, danger sport. Like stage-diving, or playoff hockey, but with tons of metal insulating you and your ferocious intent. Oh, where is a state police car with his radar gun when you want one?

On the matter of signaling, I must relate this (sadly) typical anecdote. One of these fast, aggressive, and angry drivers harried me all the way from Wakefield to Everett on Rte. 1 South one day. After all that, he was directly in front of me as we both exited onto Rte. 16, the Revere Beach Parkway, a treacherous and unattractive stretch of road with many stops and lights (including my favorite: traffic lights that show simultaneous red and green instructions—it depends on which lane you are in, it seems. Heaven help the out-of-towner on this crazy road! but I digress...) Mr. Testosterone and I pulled up to a light side by side. A sidelong glance confirmed that he was an angry young white guy. I growled at him, which was therapeutic and safe, but then, before I could stop myself, I rolled down my window and waved a hand at him and yelled “Hey!” His passenger window was open and he could hear me. Startled, he swung his attention my way. “Your turn signal is BROKEN!” I shouted triumphantly, feigning a look of alarm and concern. He looked momentarily baffled, the light changed, and I got out of his way before he could parse that I was being sarcastic. I congratulated myself on my wit, but, heck, in retrospect, I was wasting air, being entirely too subtle.

Sometimes Massholes irritate me so much that I find myself getting down in the ditch with them, I am ashamed to report. When I am traveling at 69 mph down the highway in the left lane and someone comes roaring up behind me, I know I am supposed to get over, well, actually, get the HELL out of his or her way. Sometimes, I don’t. I fix my eyes stubbornly ahead and pretend not to notice. Most Massholes can only tolerate this affront for a few minutes, then they look for an opportunity to swing around me. Even if there is limited space. Massachusetts drivers are pros at scooting in and out of tight spaces in pursuit of their goal to be charging ahead of the pack. Don’t even ask if they use a signal while executing these maneuvers.

And yes, folks, I have even taken my annoyance a step further. I admit, I have boxed in such drivers from time to time. It can be done. You simply speed up until you are even with the person in the right lane, then slow down. They can’t get around either one of you. This makes a Masshole apoplectic. But, it is dangerous, and eventually I sigh, say aloud to myself, “Oh, Teri, why are you doing this?” and get over so they can whip around me and onward.

Interestingly, all this angry and aggressive driving is rarely accompanied by honked horns, flashing get-out-of-my-way headlights, shouts, or obscene gestures. No, that would be too personal. A true Masshole is in his or her own little angry metal bubble.

When I was in high school, I recall a science teacher telling my class about an experiment called “Rats in the Box.” A few rats in a box coexist. The scientists kept adding rats until they found the moment where the rats couldn’t tolerate the crowding and began biting one another. “The rats in the box, they are biting each other today,” I sometimes mutter to myself as I drive around this area. But other areas are crowded too, and they don’t seem to display these uniquely Massachusetts driving tactics and stance. What is it, then? Is it that our cold winters and narrow, busy roads make us Yanks cranky? Those aren’t uniquely Massachusetts conditions. Is it that a bullheaded driving ethos has evolved in this area and become entrenched because we are a settled region or culture (as opposed to an itinerant or diverse one)?

I don’t have an answer, folks, but I’d be interested to hear your theories. Meanwhile, my compadre Gordon ends his lament by suggesting that we carry cream pies with us and use them for frontier justice on Massholes. I think that is a misuse of pie—for my thoughts and feelings about pie, please stay tuned!