Unfortunately, a cabbie behind me played by a different rulebook, the cabbie rulebook. Frustrated by the three seconds that he'd been forced to wait, he laid on his horn. I ignored it. Five seconds later, I still couldn't figure out if Volvo-man was leaving, as he continued to execute a muddled twelve-point turn in the coveted 10'x6' patch of real estate. HONK HONK HONK! HOOOONK! Annoyed that the directional didn't seem to deliver the message, I put my hand out the window to signal that I was waiting for parking. Almost ten seconds passed, Volvo-man looked confused, I was getting twitchy and the cabbie finally just sat on his horn. HOOOOONNNNNNNNKKK! I could also make out indistinct screaming.

Sucked in by road rage, I broke one of my cardinal driving rules and gave the cabbie an INDC salute.

Uh-oh. He's getting out of the cab. Why is he getting out of the cab? He's walking up to me. Why is he walking up to me? Oh shit.

Before I knew it, I had a very animated West-African cabbie standing in front of my driver's door screaming at me in barely discernible English. I made out the words "pull over," "fuck," "kill" and "you." Between the obscenities, wild hand gestures, distended eyeballs and clenched-fists, I began to get the gnawing suspicion that he was angry with me.

I yelled back at him that I was trying to park, finally saw that Volvo-man had decided to stay, and pulled away now that that the light was green. The cabbie loped back to his ride and proceeded to follow me through several turns. When we hit a red light, he hopped out again, ran to my car and violently banged on the window while threatening to kick my ass.

At this point I felt fear, which outwardly manifested itself as aggression. I puffed out my feathers and yelled at him to take a hike and have, uh, relations with um, himself. Surprisingly, he didn't take this well, and the banging became even more insistent as his flecks of angry spittle started coating the window. The confontation then accelerated when I turned and grabbed "the club," making a helpful "think of how this will feel when it makes contact with your head, now go away" motion. His eye-popping rage morphed into white-hot fury, and he ran back to his car.

Oh great. What if he's got a gun?

Still trapped in traffic, I reached for the next best weapon I had, my phone. I held it out the window towards him as he was rustling around in his car and purposefully pressed the digits nine-one-one. The light turned green and I took off. He continued following me as I reached the DC Police dispatcher.

Dispatcher: DC Police Department.

Dispatcher: Sir I need you to stay in one place, so I can send the officer. I'm not going to send the officer to an "area!" Pull over.

Deep breaths, Bill, deep breaths. For if you anger the dispatcher of DC's finest, who then will be left to save your ass?

Me: What the fuck are you talking about, 'stay in one place?' I'm getting chased by a fucking maniac!

Me: I CAN'T. If I stop in one place I'm going to have to fight this guy - take this down before I forget - his cab number is 198. I'm going to circle around my home until you send a cop or he takes off. Please send the cop to my home address quickly (Gave him address).

Remember kids, Dick the DC Dispatcher says: Make sure that you stay in a fixed location the next time someone threatens you and proceeds to chase you down! After all, how else will the DC police be able to find your body?

Luckily, the cabbie pulled off my scent after about three minutes and several trips around the neighborhood, perhaps after seeing me on the phone. I found parking, went to my condo and placed a bet with myself: how long will it take for a police officer to show up at my apartment?

45 minutes. 45 minutes after placing a somewhat urgent call that a potentially violent cab driver was chasing me and threatening me with a beating, a police cruiser rolls up on my building. Public Enemy wuz right, yo.

Anyhow, long-story-less-long, the cop tells me that he's not sure that the cabbie's actions constitute assault and that if any vandalism happens to the car I should call him, and leaves me with the following advice about DC cabbies (keep in mind that the cop was black):

"The Africans, they are scary. They'll yell and scream and get pissed at the drop of a hat. I'm not sure if it's their culture or what, but these guys get into a fender-bender and they look like they are going to have a stroke, yelling curses on the other guy's family, totally spazzing out. It's crazy. But usually when they calm down a bit, they're ok. Scary, but usually harmless.

Now the Middle-Eastern guys, that's another story. You know, the Arabs and Pakistanis? Those guys keep swords in their cabs. I've had to take in a bunch of them for attacking their fares. Dangerous. Watch out for them, they'll fuckin' kill you."

Uh, thanks for the advice, officer.

So is it true? Are Arab cab-drivers dangerous? I'll discuss my previous memorable run-in with a Middle-Eastern cabbie in Part Two.