Man vs. Taxi

I rarely take a taxi, if I can help it. The first time ever I visited NYC, back in 1992 I think it was, I took a taxi everywhere I went. I was convinced that if ever I plucked up enough courage to venture down into the black hole of the subway entrance, Hannibal Lechter, Charles Manson, Jack the Ripper and Dick Cheney would all be waiting to tear into me. That is ridiculous of course; every knows that Jack the Ripper preferred female victims. Eventually, on my second visit the following year, I braved the subway ritual and found that my fears were largely baseless. So now, I take taxis only when I have to; usually for the benefit of someone else.

On my way to Carl Shulz Park the other day, I came upon the saddest scene. An elderly man sprawled out on the pavement, unmoving; his khaki trench coat rumpled up around his waist, a couple of passersby kneeling next to him. A taxi stopped short; right at the crosswalk lines on 83rd Street and 1st Avenue. It didn’t take long for me to connect the dots and surmise the encounter between man and machine. The machine won, as they usually do.

What should one do in this scenario? The man standing next to me assured me that 911 had been summoned. I don’t remember much from my Boy Scouts CPR lessons and besides, others were already hovered around attending the victim. Do I stay and gawk like the rest? Do I continue on with my business as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened? I voted for the latter, remembering the stories about Kitty Genovese I had heard when I was growing up.

It was the taxi driver who stuck in my mind. He was standing aloof, next to his taxi, with a look on his face like “this is really gonna fuck up my day”. Maybe it was a cultural thing; I am evolved enough to realize that cultures other than my own express their emotions in ways that are alien to me. In all fairness, I can’t even say that the pedestrian didn’t jump the light or try a deadly game of chicken with the ubiquitous yellow taxis. I don’t know what I would have done had I been the driver, in the same circumstance. Still; it bothered me deeply. I don’t know whether the man was dead, unconscious, or just lying still waiting for the ambulance to arrive.

My own attitude towards the pedestrian-vehicle interface seems to be directly related to whether I am driving or walking at the moment. While driving, I resent the presence of pedestrians and their smug “I have the right-of-way” attitude. I get impatient waiting to make a turn at a busy crosswalk and even more furious at drivers behind me (usually taxis or Land Rovers) who lay on the horn as if to urge me to plow right through the herd. On foot though, I am a walking poster child for “I have the right-of-way, asshole”. Yes, when the red hand disappears I am going to boldly step out into that crosswalk even though I can see the $80,000 Land Rover impatiently edging its way to be first, as seems to be the purchased privilege of every Land Rover owner. It feels immensely powerful to be able to chastise the driver with a simultaneous critical look and extended STOP hand, accompanied by a curmudgeonly eyebrow bristle and an unspoken “Jesus H. Christ”.

Jesus H. Christ help me if I ever get run over, though. I like to think that if someone ever runs me over in a Land Rover, they'd better do it properly and kill me outright. Otherwise I am gonna jump up and smash their privileged face in with my bare fists. But in reality, I would probably just lie there waiting for the ambulance to come, listening to the ineffective Good Samaritans tell me everything is going to be OK, and hoping I didn’t mess up the Land Rover driver’s busy schedule for the day.