Are there others, I wonder, who feel as I do about crossing the street?
There must be. 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. This is
understood by all San Franciscans--that, no one is ever going to
hesitate. That’s why there are no accidents. It’s the unexpected in
people that makes disasters and creates a demand for traffic cops.
I try to cross the street as others cross. I choose a chalk mark and,
pretending I am a native daughter, launch out. I get on fine--suddenly
a monster machine is on me. Or would be if I did not jump back. I
shouldn’t have jumped back it seems. But how was I to know? In the
jaws of death you don’t reason, you jump. In jumping back I hit another
machine and it stops. And that stops a street car. That stops something
else. And in a minute Market street, the famous Market street, is all
balled up because I jumped back. Drivers, red in the face, swear at me,
not because they are cross, but scared-more scared than I.
Next time I am more careful. I look to the traffic cop for attention
but, being a handsome man, he thinks I’m trying to flirt. Policemen
should be homely. So I wait until the street is entirely empty. I wait a
long time--it is empty--I run like a steer--and suddenly out of nowhere
a machine is yelling at me individually and I know no more until,
breathless and red, I reach the haven of the sidewalk.
Once I heard a horrible story of a man who lost control of his machine
and ran up on to the sidewalk.