Of Course He Was Driving A Ram Pick-Up

Wherein a dilettante weekend protestor gets called to a front line of the Trumplandia Wars

If like me you drive a lot of twisty roads in an exurban northern county in the orbit of the “The Hudson Valley,” where fifth-generation farmland is being lapped up in fast-forward because the Hamptons are full and a half, the two kinds of drivers who will haunt you if you’re driving slowly in a Kia Soul to look at wild turkeys, hawks, calves, goatlets, sheepies, eagles, foxes and the entire spectrum of wildflowers: Audi drivers and Ram drivers. No other makes come even close.

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The Audis make sense to me. It’s not personal Tailgating me 10 yards back on an S-curve, they’re not attacking me. They’re maybe on an urgent quest to the city for a meeting, late for brunch over in Rhinebeck with an art dealer. Maybe he’s practicing on the scary-cool up-and0down rolling curves on 199 east of Pine Plains to get ready to drive in the One-Percenters Audi Rally at Lime Rock because Paul Newman raced there and he could say, “Yeah, I raced right about the time Newman did,” while I slowed down for the piglets.

Rome didn’t care whether it was Carthage or Carpathia they were conquering, and the Ram’s doesn’t either. It’s not the boxy Soul with the old Elizabeth Warren sticker on the back (it stayed, and it’s staying) he’s got to conquer; he’d crowd a Fiesta or a Fusion or a Camry, wouldn’t make a diff what kind of car. To the TT driver (i), am just another old dude in their way, both in reality and figuratively.

Along the way, I guess on their journey they want to imprint in my rear-view that sillystupid logo, which, ironically, is laughably un-aggressive, male-wise. It features four circles interlinked horizontally whose collective statement seems to be of whatever spirit evokes a failed Winter Olympics in Estonia.

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The Rams, though, they’re my mortal enemies. They’re back there just to fuck me up personally, no other reason. It’s in the manual: You own a Ram, now find someone who irritates you fuck to with.

And nothing screams “citiot driver” to a Ram driver like a KIA Soul, at least to a Ram driver who bought the thing entirely for dick factor, no toolbox in the bed, no corporate insignia with a phne number on the door, usually silver, I checked this Red one out the floor of Poughkeepsie dealer. $89k.

Rams are manufactured by a Netherlands Corporation incorporated in Hoopdoerf named Stellantis which also owns Fiat, Jeep, Maserati and Jeep.

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So it came as no surprise that about a month ago I pulled over to mangle a Trump sign on what I thought was a deserted country roam I finished mangling the sign and headed back to my car there was a black Ram pickup stopped going the other way, ex cept also stopped. The guy at the wheel was laughing, “Ha! Got you, dickface!” (accurate) as he filmed me with his phone. In retrospect, in my biased opinion, he looked like Steve Buscemi in Con Air, on meth. Even the Ram emblem was black instead of chrome. Serious Ram.

I gave him a peace sign and drove away, a little faster than I would have otherwise. In my rear-view I saw him do a U-turn and start to follow me. I’m a vet at criminal mischief, but I’m also not very good at it; few years ago I’d already done 6 months’ Ct. state probation for spray-painting RESIST through my handy RESIST stencil onto a crosswalk in a Colonial Connecticut village.

(Here’s the stencil. still going strong; somewhere in Massachusetts recently)

I just hadn’t envisioned that the latest mischief would take this turn — literally, the U-turn one.

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Of late, I’d been totally passive in my soft-anarchy game, just having fun. (You can get CAUTION tape at Wal-Mart for less than duct tape.)

This one was a pro-Trump sign that had already been driven over in my village, so straightening it and spray-painting made a fun Blue statement.

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He began to follow me — not maniacally; casually, confidently. Not coo close or far. After a few minutes, I pulled into the parking lot of a small company, the kind that makes ball-bearings, circled the cars, then came back to re-enter the main road, where, after waiting for me, he pulled out behind me and we resumed our game.

Then it occurred to me that within a few miles, the Salt Point barracks of the State Police would show up on the right behind a barbed-wire-topped chainlink fence. Did I want to get involved with the staties? Had I committed a felony? Definitely. But would my friend drag me out to rudely argue political philosophy in front of a large police barracks with windows fronting us.

So I pulled over onto the grassy shoulder in front of the station. The other guy pulled in slowly behind me onto the grass. In my rear-view, he was waving out his window, smiling.

I picked up my phone and called Tori and told her I might be late for Detroit pizza in Poughkeepsie at Packard and Hudson’s (unreal). Or really late. “Geez,” she said. “Stay safe. I’ll just go over there and if you don’t come, I’ll eat.” That sounded like a plan.

After the call, a state cruiser slowly drove up the driveway they use to enter the road behind us, but stopped at the top of the driveway, about 50 feet from my friend, and idled.

Later I figured maybe Ram-man thought I’d called a cop to come out, and maybe there was something in his car he didn’t want made public, or something about him, and made this was my chance, so I took it, and drove away, figuring he didn’t want to keep following me after I’d called the cops on him. So he didn’t follow me and I never saw him again. I’m going to take it as a sign that I’m getting too old for this, and I hope he has a nice day.

(i) Steely Dan:

“The talk
The sex
Somebody to trust
The Audi TT
The house on the Vineyard
The house on the Gulf Coast
These are the things I miss the most”