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January 17, 2005
"Bitch on Wheels," aka "Meet the Kinderpolitans."
3:45 in the afternoon, and we were jockeying through traffic in the Castro, on our way to yet another open house. It'd been a tense weekend, the local real estate market has lost its fool mind, and I'd developed a newfound appreciation for the term "Sunday Driver."
"We're not gonna make it," I said, nodding at the dash clock. The likelihood of us getting to an open house in the Sunset that closed in less than 15 minutes was fanciful, at best. She pursed her lips.
"You don't think? Fuck it." She looked ahead at the eight cars ahead of us at the stop light.
I prepared to make a U-turn, making a left into the driveway across the street. I stayed put for a moment while a car passed us.
"Bicycle," she called out. "Car -- another bike."
"I see him," I said.
The second cyclist whizzed into the rear view from right to left. I instinctively turned my head to see him coast down the street, but he failed to appear. In the same second, I heard, "oof," and a clatter.
"Omigod!" said Her.
In the street, a skinny guy in his thirties lay across the streetcar tracks next to his bike, rear tire still spinning.
"God-DAMMIT!" he shouted, slapping the asphalt. He rubbed his left knee, just above a fresh rip in his jeans. The first bicylist who'd passed us called to him from the stop sign further down the block.
"You all right?" was the shouted inquiry.
The fallen cyclist pushed himself off the street and righted his bike. He seemed more shaken than injured. "I'm fine! I caught my fucking wheel in the fucking train track! Fuck!"
A middle-aged white guy with a short beard walking a dachsund and a pudgy Jack Russell watched without reaction.
Across the street, drivers queued up for the light viewed the scene dispassionately. The cyclist was up and out of the street pretty quickly, walking his bike to the curb, cursing all the while.
"You're clear now," She offered.
I checked the lane and switched into reverse as the guy threw a lanky leg over his bike and coasted down to his friend at the stop sign. Neither rider wore a helmet, and their bikes were in middling shape. Both had the bad skin, spare build and squirrelly demeanor I associate with meth users. Rider One exchanged a few words with Rider Two as we caught up with them at the stop sign.
We were through the intersection when I heard, "thanks for stopping!" I pulled over.
"Was that for us?" I asked Her.
"No. We are not getting into it," She fairly ordered. She'd seen me show some aggression behind the wheel the day before, and was wary. Me, I don't think you can really call it "road rage" unless someone has a vein bulging in their forehead.
Some oldster had tooted his horn while I waited for a light. My left arm shot out, bolt-straight at the prominent "NO TURN ON RED" sign so the guy could see I wasn't just parked and contemplating the meaning of life. Like an angry gyroscope, my finger stayed true to the sign as I went through the intersection.
"Keep hitting that horn, old man," I'd grumbled, "and I'll pull you out of that car and beat you with your wooden leg."
She'd looked at me like I'd grown a third arm.
"Hey, come on. I don't even know that he has a wooden leg."
I snapped out of my reverie and drove on. The mouthy biker followed us down the block, but his friend with the errant balance leaned against the stop sign, massaging his knee some more for full effect.
I made a left onto a side street and pulled over.
"What are you doing?" She asked. "We are not having a confrontation with some freaky bikers today."
"I just want to see what he wants." I put the car in park and killed the ignition. She stiffened slightly in her seat as Bigmouth pulled up next to us. I rolled the window down a few inches.
"So, what were you shouting?"
"Why didn't you help my friend back there?"
She whipped in her seat before I could form a response.
"What are you talking about? We stopped when we saw there was an accident!"
"Yeah, but you didn't even ask to see if he was all right, and you --"
"We were stopped, we saw him take a spill, and he got right up!" said She. "We didn't move until we saw that he was okay!"
"Yeah, but you didn't even ask to see how he was doing," lamely replied the cyclist. His bad luck, instead of two assholes in an SUV, he pulled two decent individuals in a subcompact.
"We saw the whole thing," I said in an even tone. "He got his wheel caught in the tracks for the streetcar, got wobbly, and went over."
Crybaby Tweaker had recovered sufficiently to join us. He parked his bike directly behind our car and walked around to the driver's side window.
"Yeah, thanks for nothing," he started.
"None of that was our fault," I cut in. "We were stopped - stationary. We saw you take a spill, and we didn't move on until we saw that you were all right." Christ, what did you want me to do, you little creep? Fucking pick you up and kiss your boo-boo?
Crybaby seemed angry and unsure. He hadn't challenged us directly at the scene of the accident, and now, a bitchy lamentation had become a confrontation.
"You could at least have asked to see whether he was okay," said a slightly chagrined Mouthy. He had a bad front tooth that wasn't going to get any better. I imagined him shaking his fist at every dentist's office he cycled past.
"I never even got the chance! He said he was all right." I took a breath. "He got up and shouted, 'I'm fine!' What were we supposed to do?"
Mouthy was not comfortable with the tack the convo was taking. Upon further examination, it was becoming apparent to all that he and his companion were whiny children with an overgrown sense of entitlement and a sincere aversion to responsibility-taking.
"Well, uh -- be careful driving around," he responded.
I turned the ignition and put the unimposing car in drive. "Yeah, thanks."
"And be careful backing up," he admonished. I ignored him and drove straight away so they could discuss the innate selfishness of automobile drivers in more depth.
I spent the short drive home musing on whether Crybaby had parked his bike square behind our car in the hopes that we'd back over it and really give him something to waah about. I don't usually spend a lot of time feeling superior to others, but there are afternoons when I definitely feel like one of only a few adults in a city of children.
Posted by Your Protagonist at January 17, 2005 02:16 PM