Go Ahead, Run Me Over

SATIRE

Photo by Nikita Kravchuk from Pexels

I see you in the distance, edging toward me at 30 MPH in your Jeep Wrangler even though it’s a 25 limit and there’s traffic stopped down the road. You’re probably thinking, “Fucking pedestrian, don’t do it.”

I know your foot must be lustfully kissing the gas pedal, channeling your impatience. It’s written in feigned ambivalence all over your face.

But I know you see me.

I know you see the sweat licking my forehead, the muscles in my arms straining to carry groceries home in the summer heat. I know you don’t want to stop, pal.

I know you see the crosswalk, the mandatory PEDESTRIAN CROSSING sign in the middle of the road. I know you’ve watched the two, now three cars that have slid through the crosswalk. I am a sponge for their impertinence. You see it oozing from my face as I question whether to risk it all.

I see into your sorry eyes, the eyes of a man who thinks he can get away with these small acts of indecency because you’ve done it countless times. The eyes of a man who will make every excuse to think he’s in the right.

I can see your wife in the passenger seat, staring at her phone through cheap sunglasses, her glance, first at me and then you, her discontent wavering on a waxed, raised eyebrow.

I take a step into the road. My eyes, shoulders, entire body are not fixated on the road, but your callous existence. In that first step, I see your eyes narrow, your prideful grimace twitch in anticipation.

I take another step, then another. It is me telling you I do not care anymore. It is me demanding five miserable seconds of human decency from you.

I continue walking, well aware that you have not yet hit the brakes. Maybe your foot has broken its fickle romance with the gas. I wonder, but am too annoyed to care. I look straight ahead and continue walking. I meet my full stride, confident now in my path.

And then comes the moment of truth, where you either slow down, resigning yourself to common decency, or this gets ugly. I muster one quick look at you to let you know I’m not speeding up. At that moment I glare, and in that glare, I spit at the rage in your heart.

Go ahead, run me over, you indignant worm.

I will do everything in my power to stay alive. If you hit me, I will bargain with Death if I have to. I will clamp that grimace to your sorry face from my shallow grave. Bet on it.

As your wife reaches a hand out to shake you from your tantrum, you brake at the last moment, fuming. At this distance, I can see your overgrown mustache suffering in the heat of your breath. I can practically smell the Axe body spray you think covers your body odor.

I finish walking across the street and look back at you one final time, catching the tail of your Jeep as you gun it to the red light. I notice a pair of those insufferable metal bull nuts dangling from your license plate and can’t help but laugh at the irony.

For the love of God, people. Slow down at crosswalks.