Road Rage is so unbecoming, Part 2

I've posted before about the road rage born of driving in New Orleans, but I don't believe I'd really witnessed its full horror until Saturday night. My friend Lindsay and I were driving back from the bar (not driving under the influence, just driving), and I pulled up to a red light to make a right turn. I didn't pull up especially fast, not exactly fond of the screech to a halt and terrify other drivers thing that many in New Orleans seem to find acceptable. Well, apparently, I pulled up a little too fast for the person driving down the street onto which I was planning to turn. I'm assuming that it was obvious to anyone who was watching that I was planning on stopping, had slowed down considerably, and was at least 6 feet away from this guy's car. Obvious to anyone but him apparently, since he gave me a look that was part crazed meth addict, part pure rage (which could actually fit quite well into the first category, now that I think about it). After giving me the look of death, he proceeds to pull over and get out of his car. His friend, driving behind him, also pulled over and started to get out his car. Not needing anymore prompting, I quickly ran the red light and drove down the street, not wanting to witness whatever homicidal fantasy he had in store for me. Not to be outdone, he pulls out behind me, and proceeds to drive up behind me flashing his brights, stopping a mere inch from the back of my car. I believe that it was at this point that I began hyperventilating and instructing Lindsay to call the police, which she did, while I crouched lower in my seat, praying that it was, indeed, bullet-proof. After the light changed, I tried to get away from the crazy person behind me, who was apparently determined to run me off the road, and followed me through five different U-turns before I finally was able to cut someone off, almost killing myself and Lindsay, and pull in between two rather large SUV's, which I was convinced would protect me. Luckily, they did, and he pulled up in front of me in the other lane, missing the turn I made. My heart rate slowly returned to normal after about five separate coronaries and I dropped Lindsay off, taking back streets and constantly glancing in the rear-view, convinced I was now being followed.

On my way home, I realized that I must have read waaayyyy too many mystery/detective novels, because I was still sure that I was being followed and expected Satan himself to pull up behind me at any time. The knowledge that he had probably forgotten about me and gone on to torment other unthreatening girls for stopping at a red light was completely lost on me, and I felt the need to drive around for twenty minutes before actually heading home, accompanied by my friend Ann on the phone, since I was still too hysterical to make it home by myself.

So, anyway, the moral of the story is...actually I'm not sure. Stop at least 30 yards from all red lights to avoid looking at all threatening? Stop in the middle of the road and begin frantically honking my horn, hoping that someone will notice me and therefore scare away any amphetamine-crazed pursuers? All I do know is this - chasing two terrified girls around New Orleans for doing nothing more than pulling up at a red light, something that millions of people do every day, doesn't make you look a big man. It makes you look a whacked out asshat.