Old Ladies Like Me
Not too long ago, I was crossing 14th street, going south towards my apartment. It was a long day, and I was taking my sweet time crossing, because I could: I had the little white man, so I knew no car could legally run me over. There was a minivan at the opposite corner, inching towards the crosswalk — it was waiting to drive on the street that I was crossing. And for no other reason than it was a long day, I was happy to piss off this driver, who was in a huge hurry. Driving in a city? Fuck off. Evolve. That’s why you have legs. So I had the right of way, and like hell if he or she or it would take that away. I brake for little furry animals, not anxious people.
The van keeps moving up. By now it’s about two feet into the crosswalk. It’s still moving as it enters my personal space – not really close enough to hit me but closer than I like cars moving in my direction. So I try to make eye contact with the driver (can’t, too dark) and point to the little white man and say aloud, “WAIT.”
I got to the sidewalk before a window rolled down and a raspy caw of a voice echoes from the passenger seat: “Aw, shut the hell up and keep walking.”
If she weren’t old, I might have been threatened. Luckily, she was old.
I thought the driver might have been her husband, or son, so I didn’t address the hag, for fear of retribution.
As I walked the next block, having happily made a positive impact, I remembered another elderly-pedestrian incident. It happened last year in New Rochelle, and the tables were turned: I was driving; an old lady crossing the street. I was scooting up to a red light to make the right turn, and an old lady was crossing the street I was about to enter. She was no more than a third of the way across when I saw her, no more than half when I got to the light. So I gunned it. I slid past, safely far from her. But I was close enough to hear, through my open back window, a very sad, very indignant, “Asshole–”
Dan 2, Old Ladies 0.
I’m in their heads now.
