Alive in 2005
My new year very nearly go off with a bang last night.
I take the Park Ave bus to my old neighborhood. It drops me at Winton Rd and East Ave, about 10 minutes walk from the meeting. It’s a very dangerous intersection for pedestrians. Five lanes of traffic, two expressway ramps, a gas station, two fast-food joints and a bank all compete for a driver’s attention.
As a result I’m always very highly situationally aware at that corner and no matter the weather or traffic, I rigorously wait for and follow the walk lights. Even so, I can’t count the number of times I’ve nearly been hit in that intersection. If I could, last night would increment that number by one.
Traffic last night was incredibly light. I briefly considered just crossing the street without waiting, but, feeling a bit foolish, I stood at the vacant intersection and waited for the lights to sequence through.
Crossing East Ave I was briefly indulged myself in the distraction of pondering, how could it be just plain chance that a shadow cast by an overhead sign would completely and precisely cover a small depression in the crosswalk surrounding a gas or water main valve. Yet, given that the work is done during the day, how could it be planned? One could easily step into it thinking it was only a shadow.
In the center turn lane I chastized myself for not being present in the moment. Earlier in the evening, just such a lapse cost me the nastiest gash I’ve ever given myself shaving. That time I’d drifted off, after seeing a porno to the effect, wondering if I could ever let someone else shave my balls.
Then, of course, I discovered I can’t be trusted to shave my own face. An inch long, right on the jawline. Imagine such a thing on one’s more delicate parts.
Crossing the fourth lane I became aware of a car approaching in the fifth (curb) lane. It was not slowing. Right blinker on, the three ladies inside chattering away, the driver looking to the right. I put out my hand and shouted, “Whoa, whoa, whoa!”
Three faces making big, startled Oh’s screeched to a stop in the crosswalk one pace ahead of me. I tipped my hat and walked around the front of the car.
Pivoting smartly 90° to the left, I stood on the sidewalk waiting to cross Winton. After the driver recovered, she crept through her right-on-red. The lady in the back scowled at me like I was naked, which in the US, if you appear on a public street without first wrapping yourself in 3,500 pounds of steel and petrochemicals, I suppose you are.
