Now I, when I cross, say Market street at Third, I run. I
take my life and my bundles in my hand and run, darting swift glances to
the left and to the right. It looks "hick." I know it looks "hick." And
I care. But I prefer to be alive and countrified than sophisticated in
an ambulance and so I run.
At corners, too. I think corners are worse. For there the machines may
turn around and chase me, which they often do. It's a horrible feeling.
There must be others who feel as I do about crossing the street, but
they never betray it. I watch to see and when they cross, they just
cross - that's all. Not with nonchalance exactly, but with ease and
assurance. Once I actually saw a man, a native son, I'm sure, roll a
cigarette as he crossed at a point where even the traffic cop looked
nervous.
No one ever gets killed or even injured. But always everybody is getting
almost killed and almost injured. They like it. It's a sort of sport.
I've noticed it more since the city's gone dry. The game is, if you are
walking, to see how close to a machine you can come and not hit it.
Street cars, machines and people all go straight ahead and they all come
out right. It's the only city where it's done with such abandon. They
never stop for anything except taxis - not even fire engines.
The secret of it is, I think, that no one ever hesitates.
Pages:
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26