ROBIN WRITES: I brake for pedestrians
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By Robin Garrison Leach
It’s not that I hate people. I am one. I live in a world of them. I still coo at babies and treat my elders with respect.
But there is one group of people who annoy me. They share only one common trait: they walk in front of my car.
I’d never want to hurt anybody; pedestrians have owned the right-of-way since God first formed legs. And I’ve learned to endure most of them. Wal-Mart’s parking lot is glutted with couples who can’t walk and talk to each other at the same time.
He stops to check his pocket for his wallet. She hesitates to pat her hair and point toward a car that looks just like the neighbors’— (“Whaddaya know…Joe and Sally are here, too!!”). Small world, huh.
Meanwhile, I’m idling behind them. Waiting, while they decide which door to head toward. Her purse slips from her shoulder. She must stop, mid-lane, to wrangle it back into its place. Nooo…nobody could walk and do that at the same time.
I don’t get overheated, though. My car is invisible to this pair. Really. They don’t hear/see/understand my impatience. They have ALL DAY. I could rev or beep or poke my head outside my car window and sling rude remarks their way; they’d jump with shock, as if waking from a dream of lazy, meadowed walks.
I can forgive their hamster on a rusty wheel mobility. I’ve been known to do the same: it’s not intentional.
These aren’t the pedestrians who are making my pistons misfire. I’m talking about a new, sinister, breed of cross-walkers who act as if their safe passage across the road is an addendum to the Bill of Rights and their names are listed on the parchment.
They LOLLYGAG-CRAWL-HOBBLE from curb to curb as if all of life must watch and wait:
Mr. Important slams his car door and beeps the lock with his key ring. I see him there, preparing to cross. My foot eases itself atop the brake pedal.
Mr. Important, eyeballs glaring at nothing, shoves his hands inside his pockets and takes his first step. He has no reason to worry about car/flesh impact. No incentive to look in askance toward the tires I’m still rolling his way. I must stop. He knows it.
As if heading toward the gallows, he trudges listlessly in front of my bumper. His gait is devoid of purpose and slow as molasses. Behind me, cars line up like a parade. All for Mr. Important.
From the corner of his eye, I can see a glint of triumph. A gleam of cockiness that hisses, ‘YOU HAVE TO WAIT…AND I’M TAKING MY SWE-E-E-E-T TIME.’
Mr. Important dares me to protest; he’ll stop to tie a shoe if I give any indication of impatience.
If we, as drivers, have an obligation to yield to pedestrians, shouldn’t they also have an obligation to hoof across the road as swiftly as is safely possible?
Shouldn’t they at least have to look both ways/smile/ raise eyebrows to ask for passage?
Shouldn’t they be required by all that is fair to give SOME indication that they realize that there are other humans in this parking lot?
I promise. I’ll continue to stop for pedestrians. But I can’t promise that I won’t be imagining how delightful it would be to surprise the ‘Just You Wait, Cause I’m All That’ dawdlers with a blaring, ear-splitting, AHHH-OOOO-GAA-HHH honk to let them know I’m right here, waiting.
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■ Robin is a freelance columnist who lives and writes in Quincy, Illinois. Contact her at [email protected].
