12:30, Monday, I’m heading out of my parking deck, getting ready to make an unrecommended-if-not-illegal left turn. I pause, checking left and right to make sure that no traffic is coming from either direction; not much, just a single SUV coming from the left, slowly, up the hill. As it nears me and is almost past, I start to edge forward, and then realize that the SUV isn’t actually going to pass me. Instead, the driver chooses to park in the middle of the road, in the middle of the hill, effectively blocking traffic and me.

I turn right, instead, and here comes that driver again. It’s a slightly different shade of blue, and more sedan than SUV as I had thought, edging well over the center line into my lane (ostensibly to avoid the line of parked cars on that side of the street?), not slowing down, not returning to the proper lane, apparently expecting that I will stop or somehow magically move the cars parked on my side of the street to avoid them.

I’m less calm about this instance of poor driving. The poor students waiting at the next corner to cross can vouch for that, as well as my expanded vocabulary of insults.

I finally make my way to the bank, where my nominee for Bad Driver of the Year waits for me yet again. I was wrong; it is a sedan, compact, but more tan than blue, two doors (not four), tinted windows. Backing up in a one-way alley that leads to the drive-thru tellers, sees me coming and brakes, and then sits there, waiting for me to — well, I’m not sure, actually. And then leans out of the window to wave me either backwards or around them (ignore the fact that the road is barely wider than our cars). And then sits more. And then honks at me. All before realizing that I’m staring blankly at them, throwing the car in to a forward gear, and peeling out inside the alley.

I would have made up more words for them, but the tire damage they did to their own car made that unnecessary, I felt.

Deposit dealt with, I pull out of the bank and head for the Cantina, one of my favorite lunch places in Birmingham (home of the best damn Cuban sammiches in town). Headed down 7th Ave South, I turned the air-conditioning down and opened my moon roof (I’m still puzzling that distinction, by the way). A beautiful day, if a little warm — but the city felt good. And then, suddenly, I realize that I need to stop, fast, or I’ll be hitting the car in front of me. This is surprising only because we’re on a three-block stretch of road that has no lights, there’s no pedestrian traffic — point of fact, I can’t even begin to guess why the person in front of me is stopped.

And then I realize it’s him again — Birmingham’s own traffic jam. He’s changed cars again, from tan compact sedan to white pickup truck, but it must be him. No one else can be this bad, right? There can’t possibly be that many people in one small radius of town that are this ignorant of the roads and drivers around them, can there?

Maybe he’s turning left, I think, though there is no oncoming traffic to give him pause. Or perhaps there’s a dead or wounded animal in front of his truck? But the sudden release of brakes and forward motion reveals that neither is true; this guy has just become bumper sticker inspiration.

“I Brake For Nothing.”

Ooh, double meaning. I like it.

Somehow, I make it to lunch. Even though the Cuban tastes great, even in the heat, I’m still watching the roads, waiting for the driver without a clue to pass again.

Makes me wonder how bad to trip to Crestwood will be tonight.