Close encounter



To the woman in the maroon SUV, who almost ran me over on Saturday afternoon just before one o'clock. I was crossing on a legal pedestrian light. You were southbound, turning left from Robie onto Cunard, and you would have hit me at full speed if I had not yelled “HEYYYY!” at the top of my lungs. Good thing I have quick reflexes and a strong voice, because otherwise you would have been paying for my funeral, or a lifetime of medical care. You did roll down your window and slow down a little, which is more than many drivers do when they almost kill someone, but you did not apologize, or change your facial expression from the smug, I-drive-an-SUV-and-you-don't, look that is probably baked into your face by now. "I didn't see you," you said. "You're dressed all in black." So this is MY fault? For the record, I wore pale khaki jeans, it was full daylight, and the backdrop was the snowy Commons, so don't tell me I'm not visible. I walked home shaken and in a rage. You could have said, "Oh my God, I'm so sorry. I should have been looking." But you didn't; you just drove away. —Khaki Pants


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