Crossing

For most of my childhood, I was deathly afraid of crossing the street. You can blame the phobia on my elementary school crossing guard who was so incompetent in her job that she didn't notice when a long-haired rocker dude in a Harley slammed on his brake pedals way too late before the stoplight and hit seven-year-old Little Petey, causing me to have amnesia for a day.

Sure, being a Motorcycle Accident Survivor (MAS) did have its useful quirks. Because of how I freakishly came out of the accident without any broken bones or anything serious, I instantly became the most popular kid in my school, and this includes fifth graders too. Kids would ask me, "Are you the one who got hit by a motorcycle and survived?" and I would answer, "Yes," and they would want to sit by me during lunch.

Everyone thought I was a bad-ass, but the reality was that accident made me a coward all the way up until early middle school. From first grade until the beginning of sixth grade, whenever the pedestrian walk signal came on, I would sprint across the street as fast as I could. Backpack slapping my ass as I ran for my life across the street, I didn't give a shit. I just wanted to be safe and alive.

When I became old enough to want to impress girls, I got rid of my phobia in a hurry, and about twelve beautiful years passed without me ever thinking twice when crossing the street.

Now. Now, the fear is back.

One of most difficult things about England is not dealing with the metric system or understanding Cockney dialect or figuring out exchange rates, it's crossing the street. Crossing the street in London is more terrifying than walking through a landmine field blindfolded. First of all, streets here are all curvy and narrow. Right when you think the coast is clear, some Brit twit is going to come roaring through the street at 80 kilometers per hour in his Alpha Romeo. Secondly, I just can't seem to get my brain to look right first, then left, before crossing the street. It's just plain ridiculous. And the sad thing is the United Kingdom and Ireland are the only countries in all of Europe that are ass-backwards like that.

Anyway, whenever I cross the street, it's a full sprint to the other side. And if I drop my wallet on the ground while crossing, forget about it. Let it go. Just make sure you get to the other side is what I tell myself.

Yesterday I was jaywalking--okay, jaysprinting--through Chelsea, when a taxi cab that was zooming down the street screeched its brakes to a stop, inches in front of me. I nearly pissed my pants, and the taxi driver poked his head out of the window and said, "Fucking move, now!"

But I couldn't. I was frozen like a deer in headlights. Maybe I was trying to comprehend the fact that I almost died, maybe I was flashing back to my traumatic childhood memory of getting hit by that motorcycle, I don't know. But I just couldn't move.

Collecting myself, I said, "My bad, my bad."

I don't think British people know what "my bad" means, but it didn't matter because the taxi driver gave me a "peace" sign and then sped up the car again to slowly nudge me out of the way. And, that's another ass-backwards thing about the British. When they give you the "peace" sign--you know, holding two fingers up in the shape of a "V"--it really means FUCK YOU. It's their equivalent to our middle finger.

Sheesh. Me being a scaredy cat, people driving on the left side of the road, the peace sign meaning "fuck you"...it's like this place should be called Opposite World or the Bizarro Dimension or something.