Stop! In the name of something, anything

An essay by Slabtown resident Joe McAvoy

By Oregon law, a pedestrian is in a crosswalk, such as this one at NW 23rd and Savier, when any part of the pedestrian moves into the roadway with the intent to proceed. That includes not only the pedestrian’s body, but also a wheelchair, cane, crutch, bicycle or any other extension of the person. (Photo by Walden Kirsch)

Granted, there was no STOP sign. There was a pedestrian crossing sign, though. You know it. Yellow? Diamond shaped? An all black rendering of a gender-neutral bubble body, torso leaning forward with arms bent like stroking pistons propelling the body forward into the street, cautioning drivers (like you, for instance) to yield? The head a faceless orb hovering above the body? It’s hard to tell if it’s looking straight at you or is perhaps unaware of any traffic and trusts you to … well … stop. It was in the DMV manual when you were bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, studying for the drivers tests that would put you behind the wheel and on the roads and gosh-darn, Mom and Dad (and/or any permutations of those two designations), you were going to be the epitome of a safe, courteous driver.

Yeah, that one.

Oh, and don’t forget the thick white hash stripes a la The Beatles’ Abbey Road album (I’m dating myself), denoting the protected path across said street such that the ambulatory can make safe progress on their way hither and yon because all the signage and stripes are just so darned visible and straightforward.

Still a little hazy?

Here’s a detail that may help you recapture the moment under review. Rosie, my English Lab, and I were stepping cautiously off the curb while you were still a hundred feet from the intersection.

You almost hit us.

Remember?

No?

This should help.

You yelled ‘F**K YOU’ at the top of your lungs and threw us the finger.

If you still don’t recall because, hey, this happens all the time to you, well, thanks for making my rant even more relevant.

Anyway, we remember you. You couldn’t have been out of your teens. The music and the exhaled weed were blasting and billowing out your open passenger side window. You had your phone up for something or other.

Just sayin’.

It’s not like we stepped into the lane, arrogantly assuming you would see us and … well, sorry to be repetitive here, STOP at an official pedestrian crossing for an oldish guy and his dog to get to the other side. We were maybe a foot off the curb. We made eye contact with you. I had on my trusty straw fedora. I pulled Rosie in snug to ensure she didn’t get out into the lane before me.

A little sentimental digression here, I love Rosie to bits. I don’t know what I’d do if I lost her due to my negligence. I don’t even want to think about the scene if I had to scrape what’s left of her off the road. So, let’s put the kibosh to any thought that I arrogantly stepped out in front, causing you to slam on the breaks. Speaking of kibosh—or is it KABOOM!!?— you accelerated when we took another step forward after making eye contact. The side of your car passed maybe two inches in front of Rosie’s snout. Your passenger side mirror narrowly missed my arm just above the elbow. And then, of course, the expletive and gesture delivered through your open window was a nice finishing touch right when you passed.

You must be proud. Your parents must be proud.

There was a time, eons ago, that a call to the police delivering the make of your car and the license plate number would have ended with a visit to your home culminating in a stern discussion with your parents or guardian. That stuff’s history on so many levels, right? A phone call navigating the lengthy and labyrinthine and OH-SO-FRUSTRATING menu on the police 911 system ensures that the statute of limitations on any offense has already expired should one be fortunate enough to speak to a human being. And it goes without saying that if one did make it through the recorded voices in menu after menu and finally got to talk with someone, they would be told to call the non-emergency number and deal with another set of menu choices before they realize that they’re a fool for thinking a response was in the cards. No one got hurt, right? No harm, no foul. Don’t be such a Darren/Karen, Joe! The police have bigger fish to fry these days. But indulge me for a moment of fantasy. Let’s pretend the police do respond. Can you imagine them on the stoop talking with your parents about your errant behavior? I can hear the door slamming. How dare the police impugn upon their child’s behavior. That’s their domain and they take it seriously.

“Things have changed,” goes the Bob Dylan song.

So, this is all I got. A freaking Darren piece that will get your eyes rolling into the back of your head. I promised the NW Examiner editors at least one piece a month and the clock was ticking. I guess I should be thanking you for providing some content to wrap a story around.

While I’m here, perhaps a little more indulgence from you, dear reader? I mean, when did civility and manners and civic duty, not to mention obeying the law, become the fodder for TikTokers to ridicule? When did being considerate and kind become outré? When did something so simple as a STOP or Pedestrian Crossing sign become an elective that so many have chosen to … well, not select?

It‘s the simplest of gestures; stopping to allow others safe passage whether on their feet or behind the wheel of their car, turning or taking the intersection from another direction. The “California Roll" has evolved into the “Oregon Drive-Thru.” I mean, what the hell, right? No one was there. No one’s gonna get hurt.

Except when they are. Except when they do.

So, yeah, I am venting. Silly me. Doing the old geezer thing, bemoaning the passing of the good ol’ days when people treated people as if they cared. I’m certain to damage my brand, to the extent that I have one.

There is hope. There are still some parents instilling a core of values into their kids. The other night, I was walking Rosie up Northwest Savier between 23^rd and 24^th streets. It was dark. Four young men were headed my way, illuminated under the glow of a streetlight. They were big. They took up the whole sidewalk. They were speaking Spanish. Why is that important? Well, it’s not. I use it here to blast down stereotypes, given the disgusting characterization of our southern neighbors by our beloved POTUS. I pulled Rosie in close and moved to the edge of the curb to let them pass. Two of them shifted sideways instead, motioning for Rosie and me to come through. As we walked by, one of them turned to me, nodded his head and smiled. “Good evening, sir,” he said. That was it, I’m still thinking about it. About him. About his upbringing, his values. I wanted to tell him that he made my day. That his parents did a great job. That I wish him a great life. I’m guessing that he sometimes thinks of others instead of being wrapped in a cocoon of narcissistic rage at all the injustices he must endure daily. I’m guessing this young man stops at STOP signs and pedestrian crossing signs. Maybe not always. Hey, I’m not asking for perfection. Just try to do the right thing. Apologize or reflect upon those times that you don’t.

The little things in our daily interactions grow into the larger things we see played out on our streets and sidewalks every day. These young men wiped out the incident with the young person who almost took Rosie and me out in the pedestrian crossing. For that moment and more than a few after, the world was flush with kindness. My city will survive.

Is it asking too much for a little civility in Portland? A concern for others? Buy into the idea that we’re all in this together? That we don’t have to think alike, act alike, dress alike, talk alike. We just need to respect each other. Slow down and yield a little.

I went home the night of that interaction with those four young men and, as I am wont to do, put on some music and picked up something to read. I was looking for a small jolt on Spotify. I found it. Diana Ross and The Supremes rolled over me.

Stop!

In the Name of Love

Before you break my heart.

Please, I’m begging you. Think it over.

Joe McAvoy