An Exposition on Pedestrian Rage

by Nicole DeMarco

The following is an empathetic address to my ambulatory comrades in sneakers, for they too understand the plight about which I am to write.

First, I by no means want to suggest that the gripes one may have with being stuck behind the wheel on the freeway-turned-parking lot are in some way illegitimate. No man, that sucks, too. I merely want to convey that there exists an anger that, while in a similar vein, is distinct and worth documenting.

Here’s the thing: if you’re driving and I’m walking, you’re just definitely going to arrive at your destination before I arrive at mine. There is simply no need to show a blatant disregard for common courtesy and human life by rounding corners at breakneck speeds while I’m strutting through an intersection.

Perhaps this can be chalked up to an ignorance of some extraordinarily basic (so much so that unawareness where these are concerned should probably merit a license revoking) traffic laws. Allow me to elucidate the masses. Those white lines painted on the ground between blocks? Yeah, not just a widespread modern art exhibit. That means there’s a crosswalk there. Aptly named, these portions of road are “walk” ways on which those travelling by foot “cross” the street. Mind blow, right? (God I hope not).

I can concede that it’s an entirely different ballgame (woo, sports) when you see some bozo jaywalking, or lazily plodding along like they own the streets. Those jerks should get a move on. But when I get the ever-indignant “what-the-fuck” hands from a driver who’s only pissed because I disrupted their crosswalk creep, I get mad. Don’t stare at me like I did something wrong. You’re only making me want to slow my roll and watch you nervously alternate between braking and accelerating, undoubtedly weighing the pros and cons of doing some time behind bars for a hit and run. In short, you’re giving me a complex.

Just one more thing—if you insist on careening about the streets with reckless abandon, could you at least get better taste in tunes? Because if I do one day get mowed down by one of these overly zealous, vehicularly-equipped folks, I really don’t want the last thing I hear before being creamed by your car to be the David Guetta-Rihanna-Justin Bieber mash-up blasting through your open windows.

Maybe the continuation of this phenomenon isn’t the worst thing in the world. After all, I have always wanted an excuse to yell, “I’m walkin’ here!!”