Deer Caught in the Headlights

I am not one for road rage or even one to cause road rage, but that is mainly because I am still learning how to drive.

While crossing an intersection at Emory Village that looks more like the top of Carrot Top's head, I was strolling along from one sidewalk to the other. But in my retarded cockiness, I pretended to be an intellectual with head down reading the times and pretended to be a New Yorker by jaywalking. Then, I remembered how much of the South has actually had an influence on me.

I heard a sound, a dead animal, an annoying child, and it was foreign to me. I saw too large lights beaming at my face, a four-wheel vehicle slowing down in front of me, and the worse part was the honk. A few thoughts came to mind. I'm a New Yorker, how dare you? Hit me, jackass. Why am I still here? Give him the finger. What does that sound mean? Do I know this person and I am supposed to wave?

I waved.

But then, I realized I do not know anyone who is 40, white, bald, and wears a leather jacket. So instead, I did the run, or rather the jog to let the driver know that I am using almost two per cent of my energy to lift one foot past the other. I think I was actually slower than if I had just walked.

When I reached the other side, I was somewhat proud of myself to piss someone off. There is something masculine about that, something very "Stone Cold Steve Austin" about that. But the bigger part of me was more confused, shocked, and disappointed. I have become a Southerner who is afraid of horns. I feel like a boy from the rural country. You might as well stick me in Canton, Kansas and let me ride the tricycle through the brown pastures. I no longer deserve to be labelled a New Yorker or a man.

Why did Yih cross the road?
Trick question. He never did. He is too busai bein' stracted by de big ol' seeti n' its big ol' noises, yessum he was.