Hate is a strong word but it’s not strong enough when you commute in and out of midtown Manhattan on a bicycle. I mean seriously… I don’t know who I want to hate-punch in the face more:
A. The oblivious FIT fashion marketing business major with her straight blond hair in a high ponytail bobbing perfectly in time to her Nazi Werhmacht knee-high boots, marching up the green lane (for bikes only), carrying a Vera Bradley duffel bag no doubt full of nothing but yoga clothes, cum-stained tissues and a Vanilla-scented e-book reader, on her way to the Bolt Bus line to Greenwich Connecticut, who doesn’t see or hear me yell “meep meep to your left!” because she’s listening to Mumford & Sons and Facebooking her date rapist on a smart phone.
B. The Bronx-bred cab driver who no doubt deserves his own televised grudge-match-in-a-cage, but who for the time being has decided to yell at me as he cut me off to turn left, “you wait for the light, China,”as if I had just moved to the US from the lawless streets of Shanghai, even as I stood completely still behind the crosswalk… WAITING FOR THE GODDAMNED LIGHT TO TURN GREEN. At whom I yelled, “I WAS waiting, asshole!” no doubt misinterpreted through the noise of AM hip-hop in his car as “ching chong me so solly.” My only consolation as I ride off, is knowing he has to mop down vomit from his plexi-glass divider every night with a generic brand of paper towels that was Made in China.
C. The passenger seat “mover” from the double-parked delivery truck, who thinks the world owes him a candy bar and a blow job (or whatever it is kids want these days) and can’t wait to go back to his man cave. His man cave being the velour couch in mom’s living room the confines from which he will play Metal Gear Solid till the sun comes up tonight. A “mover” whose presence on local delivery sites is a complete mystery, but for standing in the middle of a one-way street diverting traffic by any means necessary—including blocking the bike-wide aisle of roadway between all the vehicles so a five foot-Asian woman on a cruiser bicycle knows she’s running with wolves. The mover who stares this small Chink down, arms puffed out and eyes gauging my weight class, like he will clothesline me if I so much as get within another centimeter of the truck’s perimeter. To be fair, he is no doubt protecting very precious cargo—Restaurant Depot water and Valu-Pak chips for the local bodega. Why else did your cousin rent a five ton-12-wheeler on a Thursday morning. Semper fi, Passenger Seat Mover. We all know that a five-ton truck is much more fragile than a 90 pound Dominican kid smoking cigarettes with the glazed “I have no dreams” look painted in grey across his face. Frankly I’d still hedge my bets against you.