August 27, 2003
2:30 p.m.
Open Letter to the Woman in the Beige Sedan
Dear Bad Driver,
You were easily going 20 clicks over the posted speed limit when you blazed through the stop sign near my house. That stop sign is near a park, which at the time was filled of little children. The stop sign is there for a reason - there is a high volume of pedestrian traffic through our park: children riding their bicycles, people walking their pets, elderly people on their daily constitutionals. You were driving through a residential neighbourhood, not the 401.
As your breaks squealed and your car careened within inches of me and my puppy, my heart dropped into my stomach and time stood still. I saw - or thought I saw - a flash of irritation cross your face. You were in a hurry and nothing else mattered to you. It must have been a relatively small irritation, though, because your recovery time was brief - you immediately drove away.
You didn't stop to apologise or ask if we were okay. Crumpled on the pavement, I reached out to scoop my puppy into my arms. I could feel her heartbeat pounding against my hand. My own heartbeat was so powerful that I thought surely you could see it shimmering on my chest as you sped down our street.
I wondered what you were thinking, as you dismissively waved your hand in my direction and hit the accelerator. Were you thinking, as I was, about what could have happened? If you hadn't stopped in time and instead hit a woman and a small dog? Would you have stopped then, or would you have kept going? What if it had been a cyclist? Or someone's child? What, I wondered, would it have taken to compel you to act like a decent human being instead of a drone in a machine? Blood? Screams? Dead bodies littering the street? (I hate to be dramatic here, but your car is so much bigger than the average child, or dog or adult).
In that blinding moment of panic, I didn't have time to do any of a number of things that I considered later on: like getting your licence number or smashing your ugly windshield with a big rock. You were gone before I even had a chance to pull myself to my feet. I was left shouting obcenities into your dust.
So instead, I went for a walk with my dog on a beautiful, sunny day. The cool breeze washed over us and a mother watching her children asked if we were okay. And we *were* okay because the sky was blue and the air was fresh and there were birds singing and interesting fire hydrants to sniff.
And somewhere in the city, you're still out there, hunkered down in your beige sedan. Your windows are rolled up. Your foot is still on that accelerator and your eyes see neither speed limits nor stop signs. Someday, in your ignorance and self-absorbtion, you'll hurt someone. Today wasn't the day.
But I'm watching out for you.
Sincerely,
The Young Woman with the Little Gray Dog
at Kendal and Bernard