Peril at the Park and Ride

Please note: This post was originally written on the morning of March 14, the day after the big snowstorm. I was on the bus, so I had no Internet connection to upload this post.

I just got onto the bus. I came so close to disaster this morning that I still feel shaky. I left early this morning in case the roads were still slick from yesterday's snowstorm. I pulled into the park and ride early. As I'm rolling down the aisle, looking for a spot, a huge, ancient Buick swings around the corner from the other direction, almost sliding into the Echo. The driver was staring right at me, and the lady had an angry, well-made up, middle-aged face. I'm terrified of angry baby boomers, so with my heart in my throat, I crept forward, trying to squeeze past her.
Then I noticed SUVs were double-parked along the aisles, so there was no way for her to squeeze this big boat around the corner. I looked into the rearview mirror to back up, and saw a line of cars behind me. Unbeknownst to me, half of the lot was blocked off with orange cones, so bus passengers had double-parked down every aisle, and the only exit was the blocked entrance I had just come in through.
I managed to creep around the corner, narrowly missing a frighteningly expensive Infiniti. Then I came none-to-nose with a Dodge Grand Caravan that stuck out into the aisle. There was a 4x4 to my left. I pulled off my gloves to get a better grip on the steering wheel. My throat was dry. My front wheels were stuck in snow, but I cranked them as far to the left as I could. If you've ever driven a manual steering car, you might know that it's difficult to turn the wheels when you aren't moving, especially when they're jammed into a mound of snow. Carrying my Pillowtop laptop to work every day has helped me build upper body strength, and I used all of it this morning to turn my wheels.
I managed to creep forward, with only an inch on either side. As I began to move, an angry scream rose behind me.
My heart pounding, I looked in the rearview mirror. A gigantic, black SUV was behind me, the driver hanging out of the open window, screaming at me at the top of his lungs. I can't repeat what was said here or I risk indecency. The copper taste of fear filled my mouth. I tried to control the wheel with my shaking hands. Finally I squeezed past, and managed to get up a clear aisle. The Echo and I hid in a corner of the park and ride lot until everyone left through the exit/entrance.
Then I drove to Burnsville, my stomach churning, a horrible taste in my mouth. I managed to safely park on the roof of the ramp at the Burnsville park and ride. I turned off the engine and took a deep breath, steadying myself. My gloves fell beneath the seat during the parking lot melee, and I dug them out, and pulled them back on with dignity.
As I climbed down the stairs of the ramp, I thought, that guy in the SUV was a bully. What kind of man screams those kind of things at a woman? (Yes, they were gender-specific epithets.) It seems being ensconced in our vehicles gives us a sense of protection and entitlement. I can't imagine a man screaming at me that way because I'm blocking his cart at Econofoods. It was disgusting. If he threatens the little Echo again with his giant SUV at the park and ride, I'm going to tell him to go pick on a vehicle his own size.