As I crossed the pedestrian walkway, a flatbed truck driver leaned out his window and unleashed a barrage of angry words at me. The wind swallowed most of his rant, but the essence was clear: he was furious, and his fury was aimed at “Democrats”, “budgets”, and “billions of dollars”. My puzzled expression likely only heightened the veins bulging in his neck. With a final, dismissive curse, he sped away, his old truck groaning under the strain, but not before glaring at me through his rear-view mirror. The faded U.S. flag sticker on his window was a faint clue to his political leanings, though I was more perplexed by why he assumed I was a Democrat. Was it my outdated 1990s attire—jeans, shirt, and blazer combo—that my wife swears she will leave me if I wear again?