Nobody likes pedestrians anymore. There was a time prior to Henry Ford when self ambulation was the only way to go. Walking was a respectable method of movement. No longer.
Those without vehicles are relegated to second class status--nobody wants ya if ya ain't got da wheels. I never realized how true that was until last Thursday when, because our car was in the shop for repairs, I found myself on the streets of Hutchinson with nothing but legs for locomotion. It was a humbling experience.
Drivers race by in their glistening metal beasts, their noses in the air, their glassy eyes gazing through the windshield. Sometimes drivers wave to other drivers, but drivers never wave to pedestrians. The class chasm is not to be bridged.
Next to the curb walks the pedestrian, plodding, eyes watching for broken bottles, ears filled with the racket of traffic, nose filled with fumes. With no radio to cover the city's chaos, a pedestrian often talks to himself. Some even stroll the boulevards singing. As a result, drivers think pedestrians are addlepated. In fact, pedestrians would just rather hear themselves than the engine of an old Ford.
The city feels different on foot. Its sounds and sights are more intense, the scars more apparent, the beauty undistorted. Pedestrians know you can't appreciate a city from the driver's seat. You have to get out and touch it. Pedestrians know a lot of things.
They know alleys are gracious places. Drivers view alleys as dark, sinister caverns which are to be avoided. But pedestrians see alleys as a short cut to somewhere. They may be filled with garbage cans, graffiti, and oil coated puddles, but they save steps and for pedestrians there is no greater attribute.
While walking in the alley behind Main Street in Hutch, I came upon a veteran pedestrian. His white unkept hair stuck out in flurries from his soiled hat. A four day growth of gray stubble accented his aging face. One eye was permanently closed by a scar, probably resulting from a blow administered by a driver, which ran from the bridge of his nose to his cheek. His good eye was cloudy with smoke from the cigarette he had just rolled and stuck in his toothless mouth. He walked with a limp as if one leg was slightly shorter than the other.
We nodded in greeting--pedestrians don't talk much except to themselves. Being new at public ambulation I watched him closely, hoping to improve my technique. He kept his head down, no doubt watching for puddles or broken glass, but periodically he would lift his weak eye toward the heavens, apparently searching the skies for a sign. When no sign appeared, he continued on, eyes downcast.
Thinking this must be the way of seasoned pedestrians I, too, followed his routine. In unison we walked, stopped and gazed skyward, and then walked again. When we had stopped the third time, the sign the old-timer had been searching for revealed itself.
A flock of pigeons passed overhead and he stumbled to the edge of the alley and pressed himself tight against the wall. I followed suit just in time. The pigeons dropped their message all over the alley.
Drivers watch pigeons and glory in their flight. Pedestrians watch pigeons and worry about their message.
Nobody, not even the birds, likes pedestrians anymore.... ~T. Stucky
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