Give Way To Pedestrians

I was up at 5.45am. I left the house at 6.15am. It was overcast and muggy and it was one of those mornings where it felt like it might rain at any moment.

As it was early, the streets were relatively empty. I was making good progress to work down Gisborne Street. I walked down passed St Patrick’s Cathedral and was starting to cross Cathedral Place, you know, where Gisborne Street does a slight dogleg off to the right.

A woman, in her cheap purple Hyundai Excel and a prematurely ageing face, an emaciated Cruella Deville behind the wheel, came flying into Cathedral Place as I was crossing. When I put my arms in the air and gave her a wide-eyed, questioning look, she shook her head, as if in disgust, and accelerated steering around me, as I yelled after her. 

"Give way to pedestrians, it is the law,” I called after her. 

I spun around on my heel.

"You fucking idiot," I said, but she was gone.

Of course, I plotted her death all the way down MacArthur Street.

I wished I'd said, ugly cunt, you know, if there was some way, she’d have heard that. (I know. What can I say? Trotting out the C word, I was furious) Rake thin, with lank blond hair and a face as if she’d smoked a billion cigarettes in her life time, staring at me from behind the steering wheel.

I thought about her all day. I screwed my hands into fists when I did.

I was up at 5.30am. I left the house at 6am. People live their lives in ordered patterns, for the most part, I thought. I wondered if my purple Hyundai Excel drive was the same. I was going to wait and find out.

I ran the scenario through my head as I walked. I’d wait at the gates to St Pats, the gates to god, I grimaced myself. The entrance to hell, that made me smile, sly pursed lips.

It was about 6.30am yesterday, would it be about 6.30am this morning?

I made good progress down Gisborne Street and I was at the gates to hell in plenty of time. I stood with my back to the thick iron bars and waited.

And then, almost exactly at the same time as yesterday, I could see the purple sedan coming down Gisborne Street. She put on her left indicator and steered into Cathedral Place.

I stepped away from the gates and strode into the middle of the street.

I had my umbrella in my hand, and as the car sped past me, I shoved the metal tip into the passenger’s side door, the connection was sweet, nails down a blackboard, leaving a metre long gouge in her paint work. That made her stop, surprise, surprise.

She leapt out of her car. "What the fuck have you done to my car?" She pointed to her door.

I shrugged, it was very satisfying. "Every time you look at that you'll remember to give way to pedestrians." 

"I want your name and number to fix my car." 

“I want you to obey the law, but I didn’t get that either.” 

I turned away and walked off. She was screaming after me. "I'll call the police." 

“Call them.” I kept walking. I don't think the police would come. She was still yelling as her voice became unintelligible somewhere in the distance behind me. I didn't look back.

I was up at 5.30am again, the next morning. I left the house at 6am. I got a good pace up Victoria Parade and turned into Gisborne Street when it was still dark. I liked that cloak under which to operate.

I wanted to see how effective my action was yesterday. It meant nothing if it didn’t change anything. You have to be willing to go the ‘extra yard,’ as my grandma used to say, if you want to change people.

I wanted to change her. I wanted to change her for the good of society. I thought of her as my nemesis. Fixated? No, I would exactly say that. A warrior for good, that’s what I’d call myself. 

I liked that, I thought to myself, as I stood up against the wrought iron gates once more.

I tapped my foot, as I waited. The morning air was crisp and clean.

At 6.30am, I could see the small purple sedan coming down Gisborne Street. I quickly stepped out onto the road.

She sped into Cathedral Place still with no regard for me. I had to step out of the way as her car blasted through the intersection, otherwise she would have run me down. Again. 

Nothing had changed.

She laughed at me having to dodge her. “Get out of my way,” she called out the window. 

"Give way to pedestrians, you ugly cunt." There, I’d said it.

Her car screeched to halt and she got out of her car. "What the fuck did you call me?" 

I turned to face her. "Oh, I'm sorry, did you not hear me?" I stepped towards her. "I called you an ugly cunt, your actions confirm it."

"Fuck you," she screeched. She pushed me in the middle of the chest with both her hands, I staggered back a couple of steps, nearly falling backwards. 

That made me angry, I'd been mildly amused up until this point. It was a bit of a game. I felt the surge of anger come up from the pit of my stomach, through my chest and down my arms. I pushed her back as hard as I could. “Don’t push me,” she yelped.

She stumbled backwards and fell, hitting her head on the bottom of her car door as she went down, which I thought was suitably ironic. She was out cold.

"Give way to pedestrians," I said. “That is the law."

She was lying in the middle of the intersection, legs akimbo, like a bag of shit having been dropped from a great height. I wondered if she was dead? What had I done? My head spun. The Catholics could look after her, of course that would only happen if she was a Catholic. That thought made me chuckle, despite the situation. Catholics don’t save lives, they save souls.

I turned and walked away. I didn’t look back. I’ve always been able to walk away and not look back. Friends, lovers, drivers who push my buttons, it makes no difference. It is a skill, a very good skill to have. 

I caught myself making boxing fists. I stopped myself. Relaxed my hands. I looked around to see if there is anyone around who saw me, there was not. People don’t notice unless it is about them, anyway, I reassured myself.

I crossed the lights at Spring Street and slipped into the shadows of the CBD.

Omelettes, eggs. Omelettes, eggs. Omelettes, eggs, is all I could think, as I, if I said hurried that would be way over estimating it, stepped up the pace along Collins Street.

Then I thought about CCTV cameras, and I started looking around for them. At 101 Collins Street, I got on an old number 12 tram, no CCTV cameras on an old tram and it sailed down the Collins Street hill to work delivering me on time.

That night I couldn’t wait for the news. Nothing, nothing, nothing and then there it was. Woman assaulted outside St Patrick’s Cathedral, Urzila Grimwald, 35, HR coordinator, from Epping. 

Ur, zila, all I could think was daughter of… and every other zilla said, “Ur,” the moment they set eyes on her. That made me chuckle.

She thanked God, just before she was taken away in an ambulance for observation.

Observation? What did that mean? That meant that she sustained no permanent injuries, I assumed. I was thankful and disappointed all at the same time. She wasn’t the victim here, is all I could think.

“What an awful thing to happen to such a nice lady,” said the news reader.

“What nice lady?” I thought.

“If anyone has further information regarding this crime,” said the news reader. “Please call Crime Stoppers on 1800 333 000.”

My first thought was that the world can’t be allowed to think of Ur Zila as a nice woman, which she was not. She is just not.

Could I call Crime Stoppers and do a kind of reverse report, saying she wasn’t the nice one?

Ha ha, I decided the best thing to do was just to let it go. Unless the police arrive, it was time to forget all about Urzila Grimwald from Epping.

Some weeks later, I was making good time down Gisborne Street in the dark of the morning. I’d be at work early, which was what I want. As I approached Cathedral Place, I glanced over my shoulder as I stepped on to the road way and I was shocked to see the purple Hyundai Excel approaching me at a rapid rate.

I stepped onto the road, Urzila swerved around me at breakneck speed, screeching to a halt just passed me a little. She got out of the car slamming the door.

“You pushed me and I fell over hitting my head, then you left me for dead,” she screamed at me.

“Urzila?” I said. I immediately thought of Seinfeld and, “Newman!”

“What have you got to say for yourself,” she demanded.

“I see you have made a full recovery,” I said.

“Yes, I have,” she yelled “Give me your name, I’m going to give it to the police.”

“I want you to obey the law and give way to pedestrians,” I said. “But I don’t get that either.”

“I don’t need to give way to you,” she screamed. “I have right of way.”

“No, you don’t,” I said. “Cars give way to pedestrians.”

“There is no crossing here,” she yelled. “There are no white lines on the road.”

“It is an intersection,” I said. “You have to give way to pedestrians at an intersection, I don’t know why drivers don’t know this fact.”

“That’s not true,” she wailed again. “I have right of way.”

So, I brought the rules up on my phone, in the dark, in the middle of Gisborne Street and Cathedral Place intersection at 6.35am. And she looked at it. She took the phone from my hand and read it again. Then she brought the information up on her phone.

“Well,” she said. Wide eyes. “I didn’t know that.”

“Now you do,” I said. “And the world is a little safer.” I felt my mouth grimace. “Hopefully.”

“Well?” she said.

“Well?” I said.

“You mean, all this time, we could have been friends?”

“Friends?” I questioned. “I guess.”