The Girl in Baltimore
The one crossing Park Avenue at Baltimore Street the other day: the weather was so beautiful, so unlike late June in Maryland–more like I remember Minnesota, with clear skies and no humidity and the temperature somewhere in the mid-70s. Sure, the drive up 97 was full of the usual stress, with those baseball-cap dinks in their CRXs with the shiny chrome taillight arrays zipping in and out of lanes; and perhaps this stress was etched into my face, but at the moment I sat there at the corner, waiting for you to cross before I turned left, I was actually in no hurry at all, very comfortable with myself and the world. I had turned NPR off miles back, and so had not yet heard that the Ready Reserves were being called up. No fist shaking. No cursing. You were a pedestrian. You had the right of way. I was happy to let you cross, because I want to be nice, and it’s the law. So why did you yell at me? It was a Left Turn Only lane, and yeah, I suppose that technically I ought to have had my turn signal on anyway, but did the fact that I did not have it on, was that reason to get all bent out of shape and yell at me, in that way that screwed your previously attractive face into a twisted mess? I wasn’t rushing you. You could have taken five minutes to cross and I wouldn’t have cared.
Look up–look at the sky. It’s a beautiful day.
