Street Rage

Walking is a major means of transportation here in the concrete jungle.  When I first visited New York one of the images that stuck with me was that of hundreds of people, like a flock of migrant birds, crossing the street in a mass diaspora when the walk signal shone.

Masses of people however do not share a flocking bird's sentiment of collaborative conjunction.  New Yorkers do not flock.  They dart--and not collectively.  It's an outright fight getting up the subway stairs, navigating potholed and pockmarked crosswalks, walking with a purpose. No, walking with a vengeance.  Nobody strolls in New York City (except tourists in Times Square and Macy's).

Sometimes I notice myself lapsing out of my usual pleasant, tolerant temperament into this angry bilious person with laser beam focus and no time for bullshit.   Just the other evening I was walking from the subway station to my apartment, and some poor pretty drunk girl positioned herself perfectly in my way and only noticed after I had to stop dead in my tracks.  She looked up at me and cooed a flirty, high-pitched "Oooops" hoping I'd smile at her folly or look back at her with admiring eyes.  Instead, do you know what I did?  I walked around her and stomped off shaking my head at her outrageous behavior.  Not only did I not play along with her game, I didn't even acknowledge she existed.  She got in my way.  How dare she?  And then she wants me to think it's cute?  Bitch!

Too much?  Well, that's my point.  And believe me, tonight I got my comeuppance when some guy called me a "fucking idiot" because I got in his way as I exited a subway train.  I'm sure he's normally a nice fella too.  But there's something about periods of transition: anxiety levels rise, pressure sets in: there is simply no time for passing pleasantries in a rat race.

So if you see me on the street, wave.  Smile.  But by all means, please keep it moving.