Crosswalks — what a concept!
Jaywalking imperils pedestrians, drivers
To the person who sauntered in front of my car the other day — the woman who made me mad enough to roll down my car window and attempt a snide remark, which NEVER happens — please read the following:
We were on a street near my house in Alameda, right by the police station. Do you recall? I, in my 2007 Galaxy Gray Honda, was approaching the light, which was red, so I was naturally slowing down. But then you, a perfectly able-looking woman perhaps in your 20s followed by a slightly older, also able-looking woman (Your mom? How nice) started strolling … no, dawdling … no, lollygagging into the street about 10 feet before the crosswalk to jaywalk right in front of me, from the 7-Eleven over to the library — perhaps to read up on the pedestrian section of the California Vehicle Code, one can only hope?
I didn’t even think you’d really do it. I thought maybe you were somehow distracted and that one or the other of you would soon see that a car was coming and you’d step back like any reasonable humans who have a zest for life. But no. So I stopped short to protect you, beeping my horn for good measure in a well-meaning effort to rouse your lackluster zest.
You mouthed something like, “Oh, come on!” in expletives, gesturing that I’d have to stop at the red light anyway, and then you kept right on lollygagging … no, moseying … no, dilly-dallying across the street. It seemed you even slowed your pace further, and might have at any moment whipped out a camp chair and plopped down for a while to file your nails. Entire mountain ranges likely formed in the time it took you and your companion to make this highly illegal and perilous journey.
And, well, you were right. I would indeed be stopping at the light. But in the meantime, I might have actually hit you — because you were in the middle of the freaking road! If a motorist has to brake to not hit you, even if the car is going slowly, you, the pedestrian, are doing something wrong. What if I’d been focused on the signal light, or glancing down to check my gas gauge, never expecting human forms to randomly materialize before my eyes — practically “apparating” Harry Potter-style — in the middle of the freaking road?!
You made me mad. I don’t like to be mad. I’m not good at it. I tried to roll down my window, and of course, in my agitated state, I hit the door-lock button instead. Twice. When I finally got the window down, you were still in the road — because of the aforementioned moseydawdlegagging — so I pointed at the intersection, shouting the stinging comeback, “And that’s a crosswalk!”
I use the term “shouting” loosely because I have a very small voice and when I try to speak loudly it usually comes out like a little squeak as if a cartoon mouse in a house is trying to communicate with another mouse on a boat in a river in a neighboring state, thereby diminishing the impact. So you may not have even heard me.
After the light changed and I’d made my way home, cheeks flushed and heart pounding, I thought of far more impressive retorts, but I’d lost my chance. Feel free to give me a call. I’ll squeak them at you.