The “Walk” sign proclaims it’s his turn to cross the road. And because it’s evening rush hour and many people in this town drive aggressively (remind me to tell you about the longest car horn honk EVER), a man attempts to turn left while this dude’s crossing and has to slam on his brakes.

Well, this dude is pissed. The world slows. A half dozen of us waiting to cross the “T” in the road stare at the spectacle. Profanity fills the hot, stagnant air (probably still floating there) as he stomps over to the driver’s window and shouts, “Fuck off!” or “Go fuck yourself!” or “Fucking dick!” Fuck something. I smile and shake my head. I do this a lot nowadays.

He joins us, his audience, momentarily, fails to see the “Peace” sign I give him, then–you’re going to love this–stomps against traffic across the “T” intersection so cars must slow or slam their brakes for him. Not one blared horn punches through the thick air. My smile morphs into a chuckle as the “Walk” sign shines and we follow the chucklehead storming home. Dude, you need to chill out, I think.

Out loud.


Lack of communication is unhealthy.

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