Matt was home from college. It was a Sunday afternoon and the traffic on Old Route 22 was heavy and heading south to NYC. Matt and I were running at a pace that allowed Matt to talk the entire time. That is to say, I was completely out of breath. A group of late model foreign sedans whizzed by us, going faster than the speed limit. What was worse was that none of them moved over to give us any space. Matt took offense to this, and launched a wad of spit in the cars’ general direction. It was with neither good luck nor bad luck, but purely with Matt’s luck, that the spit landed squarely on the windshield of the only domestic car in the bunch, a gleaming white Corvette. “I think you got the windshield of that Corvette” I said. We kept running. A half-mile later, as we passed my Grandmother’s house, the Corvette pulled up alongside us, window down, arm hanging out, pointing at us. The arm was attached to an irate bearded man who had a lot to say about his now-soiled ride. As we ran, Matt disputed the man’s version of the events, using the impeccable logic that if the guy had been driving slower, none of this would’ve happened. They continued their discourse for another 30 yards, then the guy sped up the road. It has always been a matter of debate as to what happened next: was there a gesture from our party in the receding car’s direction? Did George Washington really chop down the cherry tree? Who can say? Regardless, about 50 yards from us, the Corvette slammed on its brakes, nearly sliding into a ditch, and a six-four version of rage personified jumped out. “Run” was all Matt said. We high-tailed it the other direction and cut up into the woods. I’m not sure our pride was still intact, but we were.
Saddened to hear this. He was a lot of fun even when cynical
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