By Cortelyou Rd. Station by Alaina Hammond

The car almost hits me. I say “the car.” I should really say “the man driving the car” or even just “the man.” Because it’s the man who almost hit me, a second ago. His ten-thousand-pound vehicle is an extension of him, like a sword, or a violent robot arm. To compare it to a penis is a bit too trite, and apt. 

The point is the blame falls not on its hideous strength and frame. Rather, it falls entirely on him. His arrogance. His wanton disregard for etiquette/human life.

Still. I’m exaggerating about the car’s weight, probably. I don’t know, I don’t drive, I’m a perpetual pedestrian. I live my life on the sidewalk, praying for cars to show me mercy, each time I display the arrogance of daring to cross the street. 

I always wait for the proper light, but for some drivers that’s not enough. For them I need written permission, or to sacrifice a squirrel, who the fuck knows. Everyone’s a jaywalker in the eyes of a selfish driver, regardless of the law. The law holds no candle against their tires.

This, I think. Aloud, I say, “You almost hit me.” His window is open. I say it without anger. In a factual tone, because I’m speaking a fact. I want to hurt him with my calm neutrality. I want the truth to speak for itself. I want to hurt him.

Apparently it works, because my accuracy is enough to induce his rage. Perhaps his guilt is an underlying factor; regardless of the catalyst, the explosion burns bright.

“You’re psychotic! Go to Hell!” he screams at me.

I’m tempted to open his driver side door, and whisper in his ear, “You’re right.” While showing his throat exactly how right he is.

Fortunately for both of us, I don’t have a knife on me.