Dr. Cunt

I’m in the middle lane, stopped at a red light on King Street. A belligerent shitbird driving an oversized, red F-150, F-160, F-170, F-180, F-who gives a fuck how huge it is pulls up next to me on the left. He’s convulsing in rage. He keeps looking at my car, followed by wild gesticulations. He’s a white guy (because, of course, he is). I recognize the symptoms. I’ve seen them before, and I smile widely at the flailing buffoon. He’s furious at my car. Maybe it’s the huge “Fuck Trump and Fuck You for Voting For Him” sticker that is rendered complete by a giant middle finger that graces the rear panels on both sides of my car. Maybe it’s the “I could shit a better president” sticker or perhaps “black lives matter more than white feelings.” It could be any one of the 15 or so stickers on my car that has triggered him, but he’s engorged red like his imagined tiny penis and furious. Finally, this pink, beached walrus rolls down the window as the light is about to change. He bellows in impotent rage, “Know what? You’re a dumb cunt.” I respond quickly because this isn’t the first time an asshat has said this to me, “Know what, motherfucker? I’m a fucking smart cunt. In fact, it’s Dr. Cunt to you.” The light changes. I’m rejoicing that my morning meetings are over and I’m free until the evening. The fact is, I’m tired of this regime. The pussygrabbing. The corruption. The lies. The industrial-strength racism and misogyny. I’m tired of the Gropenfuhrer and his conartistry. My car is literally my rage on wheels. It’s bait. And right now, I’ve got a big fish on my line. Once he realizes I’m chasing him, he rolls down his driver’s side window and flips me off. I return the gesture. We’re stopped again. I yell from behind, “You picked a fight with the wrong cunt today, sonofabitch.” I rehearse to myself, “Today, he will learn that men are not always in charge, and not all women are victims.” I can see the moment the worry clicks into place when he realizes I just might be the psycho-bitch Tucker Carlson complains about to loser men like him. He starts driving erratically to get away from me. But my practiced 2009 Yaris is surprisingly nimble in suburban Virginia traffic. He tries pulling into a gas station, but I wait for him. “Rookie move,” I think to myself. Eventually, he decides to continue. And I’m right behind him. He calls me “crazy bitch” just before he maneuvers back onto the road, and I’m on this fucktangle of assholery and misogyny like white on rice. He heads towards the highway, where he thinks he has a fighting chance of losing my tail. But there’s more traffic than usual at 2:17 pm on this particular Thursday. He’s changing lanes recklessly, but I don’t lose my quarry. Did this head-up-his-ass clown actually think he was the first man to call me a cunt? As I’m reveling in the sport of terrifying this pig, it briefly occurs to me that he may have a gun. But I don’t care. “I’ll go down with my boots on,” I reassure myself and continue the pursuit. After a few miles, he changes lanes to take an exit. He’s still flipping me off and calling me “crazy bitch” every so many minutes. I don’t respond because I don’t need to. Right now, I’m in charge. He turns down increasingly smaller roads, then he comes to a stop sign. He makes a final right-hand turn and then ducks into a driveway. He bolts for the house, nearly tripping. Maybe it’s his house. Maybe it isn’t. But I stop and take a photo of him running away in terror. I yell from my window one last time, “Coward-ass Motherfucker,” and drive away.

 

C. Christine Fair C. Christine Fair, a native of Indiana, is a Professor of Security Studies at Georgetown University. She completed her PhD in South Asian Languages and Civilization at the University of Chicago. Her creative pieces have appeared in Fictive Dream, Hypertext, Lunch Ticket, Glassworks, and Existere Journal of Arts, among others, in addition to her scholarly work. She causes trouble in multiple languages: Hindi, Urdu, and Punjabi.