Showdown

January, 1997

I suppose if I was a more observant person, I would have understood it all a little better.

But to be honest, I'm not a very observant person. I have a tendency to just keep my head down and trudge along my way. I like to get where I'm going, and I guess I don't think much about what happens around me on my way there.

And it bothers me when other people feel like they have to force their lives on everyone else. I don't expect things out of people. I don't ask anything from anybody, and it just bothers me when I feel expected to follow other people's plans.

There was this old guy, Mr. Flaherty I think his name was, I was behind him in the Post Office once. We lived in the same neighborhood, and it's strange how often you see the same people when you live in a big city. there was this one time in October I think, Mr. Flaherty and I were crossing the street. I walk to work every day. Helps me get exercise, and get myself mentally prepared for the day, but unless I walked three blocks up the street to the subway, I had to cross this street to get where I wanted to go. It was a busy street, and you had to press the little button to get the sign to say Òwalk." I liked to press the button. It made me feel like I was accomplishing something in a situation where there was nothing to do but wait. It upset me when little things like that get in the way of my routine. Why should I wait for the stupid light when I'm just trying to get to work? But there was nothing to be done, so I'd wait. I figured if I pressed the button enough times, the computer inside would realize that there were that many people who wanted to cross the street, and change the light faster. But we could tell it was happening soon, because the cars in front started to speed up- yellow light. Then it said Òwalk", but this guy was still stopping, and stopped right in the middle of the crosswalk. I hurried across darting around it, afraid that it would decide to keep going with me right in front of it, and then I heard a strange thumping sound. And then Mr. Flaherty.

"GODDAMMIT! I'M TRYING TO CROSS HERE!!!" The old man was pounding on the hood of the car with his fist, wielding his faded chipped face like a knife to the driver. "I'M TRING TO WALK HERE!!!" Not quite Ratso Rizzo, but not bad. He certainly had a lot more guts than me. I just hurried even faster, hoping to keep myself disassociated with the fruity old man. As I hit the sidewalk, I turned around and saw Mr. Flaherty edging closer to the curb, as if he was tempting the light to change with him still on the move. I guess I could see his point, but I don't think I would ever thump on the hood of a car. After all, he did stop. I've almost been hit plenty of times by people who rush the yellow light and blast through as it turns red. I just learned to wait an extra minute after it says "walk" before I really do walk. I don't want to risk being on the wrong side of a speeding fender, being the unobservant person I am.

So anyway, there was that time, and this other time when, honest to God, just about the same thing happens again. I'm waiting at the crosswalk, like a month later, and Mr. Flaherty comes tottering over. He's wrapped in black wool, with gloves with no fingers, so his bony claws blush blue in the December wind. He looked a little like a Dick Tracy comic after a night on the cutting room floor- his nose and chin were square as a pair of stairs, but his skin was chipped and colorless. He stood behind me as we waited for the "walk" signal, but he was huffing and fuming at the inactive light. It did take a long time, and the endless stream of traffic didn't seem to mind, just kept swooshing by. One guy who was waiting with us just started to cross- just started walking in the middle of the whole smear. There was no car in the closest lane to the curb, so he just crossed it, and waited for a space in the next lane, and shot through the hole. I was impressed, I started to follow, figuring he knew what he was doing, but there was a car coming in the first lane, a little too close for my comfort, so I retreated to the safety of the curb. I admired that man's agility, almost as if crossing the street were some kind of refined skill, that could be improved with learned behavior and practice. but finally the light changed, and Mr. Flaherty and I started across. I was lucky to look left when I did, because a white BMW came bellowing to a halt right in front of me. the driver probably didn't notice the light. Not very observant. I shook off my terror and started across. Mr. Flaherty would do no such thing. Thud thud thud.

"MOVE YOUR GODDAM CAR!!" he shouted. I ran to the far curb and turned around. The old man just stood there right in front of the bumper, and glared through the glass. " THERE ARE PTOPLE TRYING TO CROSS THE STREET, SO MOVE YOUR GODDAM CAR!"I couldn't see the driver. There might not have been one, because the car didn't move. Not at all. Mr. Flaherty lifted his arm, his elbow at a right angle, paused and banged again. Thump thump thump.

"BACK YOUR CAR UP! BACK IT UP!! I'M NOT MOVING UNTIL YOU DO!." The driver did nothing. "I HAVE A RIGHT TO CROSS THE STREET WITHOUT-" a horn blared. It was the car behind the BMW. The car behind that leaned on his. I looked up at the light. It was green.

"I'M NOT MOVING UNTIL YOU BACK UP YOUR CAR!!" The BMW raised its voice in a nasal european skwak. The old man shuddered. Rage fired in his face. He banged on the hood. "MOVE YOUR CAR! MOVE YOUR CAR!"

The BMW, almost in response to the man, gunned the engine until it strained, dropped to the idle, then revved again. Flaherty didn't budge. I was frozen to the curb. I felt like I should do something, but what the hell was I supposed to do? Pull the old guy to the sidewalk, and get racked by some mindless boob in a Yugo? I was afraid. And what would Mr. Flaherty do to me? So I did nothing, watching from a safe distance as the BMW inched forward. The racket of horns was constant, as cars flashed by in the other two lanes. A black Honda blurted a riotous Doppler yawn as it screeched by, startling the old man. The BMW continued to inch forward, and Mr. Flaherty backed up in step, as if motioning through the steps of some warped tango with the thing. They were almost in the middle of the intersection now, and then the BMW stopped. Now the cars behind it were really irate. They bellowed like a nursery full of soggy bottoms, the drivers out of their seats leaning into the wheels, as if somehow that would increase the significance of their car's mighty bleat. The BMW backed up very slowly, leaving the old man standing alone in the middle of the intersection, and then gunned it, a horse out of the box veering around and past the old man. He was shaken, petrified and livid all at once, turning to shake his fist and holler at the car.

"GODDAMMIT! WHAT KINDA HURRY-" The next car in queue zipped past and the old man, fearing he had been bested by his foe, turned and trudged for the curb, his face a concrete slab of frustration and defeat. He shuffled past me, the stoic warrior for pedestrian rights and headed off in no particular direction muttering ". . .such a goddam hurry for their goddam important goddam lives they have to risk the lives of every goddam other person to get to their goddam lunch meeting two goddam seconds earlier. . ." That was all I heard. I wasn't really paying that much attention. I was late as it was.

Today was the coldest day so far this year. The coldest day I can remember, though I don't remember weather much. I'm not very observant that way. The wind lashed and whooped, prickling through my thin coat, virtually whistling between my ribs. I felt naked against its power, like hiding in a gazebo during a hurricane. Normally I enjoy getting lost in thought when I walk, but today I was almost feral in my cognitive simplicity: "cold. . .cold. . .cold. . " I thought of nothing else. I felt like I could kill a man, for the simple empty comfort of wrapping myself up in his warm trickling flesh. The thought had a certain appeal. But instead I waited at the crosswalk as I always did. The light would not change. The river flowed vibrant of cars and trucks, seeping blue billows out their backsides. The clusters of people waiting for the signal grew on either side, everyone pressing the button over and over, in a combined effort to coerce the powers that were. Everyone looked vacant, lost in their private, intimate lust for warmth. However, nobody embodied the misery of the event quite to the extent that Mr. Flaherty did, huddled in his slight wool coat. His bony, meager frame looked like it itself was made of ice, and that his mind and spirit rejected such feeble constitution. He shuddered and cursed, glaring with the motionless glaze of an eagle in either direction. Still the light would not change, and the number of the silent shivering grew. There was a shared frustration among the group. None of us had the luxury of a warm car to toodle around town in. Our lot was to stand around waiting for them to pass on by, until it was convenient enough for them to grace us with a casual waving through. Why should we be forced to wait out here in relentless bitter freeze, our only shelter the thin layers we can find, while they drift by in balmy comfort? I felt a latent injustice in the situation, and I wasn't alone. Mr. Flaherty dropped his defensive pose and stepped forward. He stepped off the curb. He slowly, steadily started into the first lane. Two women stirred, watched, and noticing his confidence, followed. The old man had reached the second lane, and more people began across, battered soldiers making their final stand at the front line. A pair had started to cross from the other side, as cars blurred by in the middle lanes. I was about to step off the curb when a blue Mercury whizzed past in the first lane, screeching his horn. But still the old man crept on, seeming not to notice the bitter oily breeze as a moving van shuddered by, inches from his back. By now I was alone on my side of the curb, the crosswalk dotted with the determined few who were to brave the onrush, joined in their bitter frustration. Flaherty had reached the double yellow line, and there he stopped. He turned and looked directly at me.

"Well, c'mon now, son." He said, and turned back around. I just stood there, stuck to my curb, staring. I watched him start into the middle lane on the other side. Cars continued to streak by, and I was getting colder. I pressed the button again, the metal resistant in the cold. The traffic did not seem to let up, and the light would not change. A man waited in the final lane on the other side to help Mr. Flaherty to the curb. When they reached the sidewalk, the old man shook the hand of the other, and they parted. I stood and watched Mr. Flaherty. I watched the other people. I watched the traffic and the lights. Slowly, I turned away from the sidewalk, and headed for the subway. It was a couple blocks out of the way, but it was no big deal.