Green-Means-Go (And Red Means Something Else)

I know I've already told you about how fast I walk home from work. Even when I'm not rushing home to Tiffany, I'm still rushing. I like to immediately differentiate between my work day and my personal time. As soon as I walk in the door, I drop my bag and change clothes. Sometimes Tiffany comes home--or out of work if I've walked to meet her--to find me in the strangest outfits because I've grabbed a shirt off one stack and a pair of sweats off another without any thought as to whether they go together.

When you're walking quickly, every traffic light is a possible obstacle. I use a system I call "follow the lights." I zig and zag across the street with green lights until another zig would take me off course. Then I have to just hope I get green the rest of the way home.

Sometimes I attach meaning to the lights, like: "If this light stays green too, what I'm working on today will be no problem." I might even whisper "Yes!" under my breath if I'm coasting across under green-means-go. Of course, sometimes I don't make the lights I've attached meaning to. Sometimes I have to pull up short because it turns yellow-red when I'm still several feet from the curb. Or-- talk about ambiguous--as I'm in the middle of the street, the light will turn yellow and I'll actually hesitate, like, "oh god, what does this mean for my day?"

The other day I was walking home extra fast. It was the night my mom was flying in and I was meeting Tiffany and some friends at a bar before I drove to pick her up at the airport (have no fear, readers who don't know me--I don't drink). I found myself stuck behind a man who was walking at exactly the same pace. He was a little rough around the edges, but he was conscious, which put him light-years ahead of most of the people I pass on my way to and from work. And, he was fast. Every time I broke left to pass him, he weaved left too. When I made a dash to pass him illegally on the right, he tottered--at full speed--to the right. Eventually I squeezed past him on the right by dropping my left shoulder back so as not to bump him and scraping my right shoulder on a brick wall. I kicked into high gear to give us a little space only to pull up short at an out-of-nowhere yellow-red.

"Sh*t," I exhaled.

"Aww man," the man said, as he pulled up short beside me.

I looked at him. I had never seen someone else so distraught over a light.

"I hate it when I miss a light," he muttered, half to himself.

I looked harder at him, and he turned to look back at me.

"Know what I mean, deah?" he asked, in a thick Boston accent.

"I do," I said, incredulous. "I hate it too."

The light changed and we crossed together.

At the next light we pulled up short again. The sudden stop caused his cigarette to fall from behind his ear. He stooped to get it and patted it back into place.

"I'm not against jay-walking," I hinted.

"Oh, me neitha," he replied, as we both started to cross on the red. "Except when theyahs kids around. Then I can't do it. They gotta learn, ya know."

"Me too," I said, but quieter. On certain occasions, I have jay-walked in front of moms holding back small children on the edges of curbs. But I did feel guilty about doing it. I made a quick promise to not do it again. If this man, with the smell of stale alcohol on his breath, could forego jay-walking for children, so could I.

Through the remainder of our shared lights, I learned the man was turning fifty in two days and thinking of returning to Boston where he had family because he was having trouble finding work in San Francisco.

At my block, we ended our conversation abruptly. We were both in a hurry to get where we were going.

"Take care, deah," he said, turning to go.

"You too." I said. "Happy birthday!"

I wished him luck, but I didn't make it contingent on the next green-means-go. One should never pin their hopes on a traffic light. After all, maybe stopping at red is exactly what's supposed to happen every once in a while.