Get Thee to a Hospital

So today I was trying to cross the street. And when I cross the street, I do it with the New York flavor. This means I don't stop at the curb, but instead wander three or four paces into the street itself, inching ahead enough so that I'm just short of being clipped in the sprouts by the rear-view mirror of a passing car.

I do this because I am impatient and want to be in the best position to spring forward the instant there is a break in traffic. Green lights, red lights, walk signals -- those are all suggestions, much like those "skillet-ready" frozen meals that claim to serve 2 people. Yeah, right.

So there I am, and I see a break, but I kind of have to hoof it, because I can see all these trucks just raring to go. In fact, I have to jog, which is terribly undignified, but to get hit by a truck would be even more undignified. That and I was wearing a nice suit, and if I get hit by a car, the paramedics are taking their scissors to my suit, and the thought of them cutting up into little shreds of cotton was too much to bear.

So I'm jogging and of course I'm going to make it, and just as I hop onto the opposite curb, I hear the screeching of tires and the honking of horns. And it bugs me. It really, truly does. I am an expert street crosser -- I can say that in 99 percent of occasions, I've always timed my crossing into traffic exactly right. So for some asshole driver to indulge his inner worry wart and honk at me because I got away with just inches to spare is infuriating.

So I turn around, taking my hand out of my coat pocket to flip this driver the bird -- in fact, I'm even considering giving him the two-hand salute on this one -- when I freeze, just stop dead in my tracks.

Because the man was not honking at me. No, he was honking at a gaggle of nuns, about six in total, all frail, all elderly, who had been at the other end of the crossing behind me and impetuously decided to follow me into traffic.

Normally, when a woman follows me across the street, I chalk it up to my rugged handsomeness and overwhelming charisma. But these were nuns, women of the cloth. Even I have my limits.

No, it seems they thought they could cross the street at a pace equal to mine, which seems to me a grievous miscalculation. We only had but a few seconds, and it took every ounce of grace and speed in my 200-pound bulk to make that crossing without incident. What hope do nuns have?

Perhaps I could have been a gentleman and helped them cross, or even merely herded them along. But I was crossing against a green light, and in order to have come to the nuns' aid, I would have had to wait for the walk signal. And I'm afraid I must confess that sacrificing those 30 extra seconds was just something I was not prepared to do.

This is not the first time this has happened. Anyone who has ever been at a crosswalk knows that the herding instinct is strong, and that many people won't cross until one daring, enterprising soul does so first. The "sheep" don't even look at the traffic -- they look at the person and go, if he can make it, I can make it.

Since I am usually that reckless person, I have found myself leading dozens of people into oncoming traffic. There has never been an incident, thank God. But this one with the nuns was too close to call. I mean, can you imagine the hell reserved for the asshole who led nuns to a horrible death by city bus? It must be even more boring and awkward than last night's Oscars.

So I hereby promise to try to wait for the green light. I imagine I will fail at this, so I will make the additional promise that, when I do cross, I will turn around and loudly but politely warn the assembled crowd behind me that what I am about to do should only be done by professionals. And I should probably collect waivers from those who do attempt the crossing, but I feel like my recklessness as a person should extend to recklessness as a lawyer.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go cross the train tracks.