A Dangerous Drive

Three years in the Greek community at State College has allowed me to build a vast web of contacts and friends, and consequently, it is difficult to traverse campus without crossing paths with someone I recognize. It is a nice ego boost, having so many familiar faces at a university with more than 20,000 students, but yesterday, my arrogance-filled need to wave to all I passed nearly cost me.

After dropping off Audrey at her house, I headed down the main strip in State College Town on my way to my parents’ house. As I approached one of the many stop signs on the street, I noticed a fellow Fraternity member to my left on foot, and turned to wave as I began to slow the car to respect the approaching stop sign. When I turned back to the road, I realized my mistake and slammed on the brakes just in time to avoid several years in prison. I had nearly mauled two girls crossing the street in Audrey’s car, and the looks on their faces could not accurately be described as pleased.

“You do realize you have to stop, right?” the nearly-flattened girl muttered in disgust as my mouth hung agape in shock at the atrocity I nearly committed.

“Oh my God, I am so sorry,” was all I could mutter as she turned her back on me before I could even check to see if she was ok.

The fraternity member, Tankass, so dubbed because of his well-endowed rear-end, bounded in the passenger side door as I rolled up the window, checked my limbs and thanked God I had not killed the poor girl.

“I think you ran over her foot,” Tankass said as he shot me a glance and strapped on his seat belt.

“Are you kidding?” She’s not limping. If I did, why did she run off?”

“Probably because she’s afraid you’ll take off the other one,” he helpfully offered.

I paused to watch the girl cross the street and head down a side street before accelerating and dropping Tankass off at home. She had no noticeable limp or injury, but thoughts of a legion of cop cars chasing me entered my head and charges of a hit-and-run flying from a black-robed judge’s mouth caused me to shudder.

I was fortunate not to have hit her, and I was in the wrong for taking my eyes off the road and failing to stop at the stop sign, but allow me take this opportunity to pass the buck and some blame on to the pedestrian. Pedestrians have no idea how to cross the street on our campus; they often get to a street corner and merely cross, assuming the motorist will see them and stop. The motorist is certainly in the wrong if he strikes a pedestrian, but you learn to look both ways before you cross the street when you are three-years old, and far too often in State College Town, a pedestrian dashes out in front of a car locked into the Dave Matthews on their iPods.

I feel privileged to call into question how my peers cross our town’s streets because I spent my formative high school years in Metropolis, and quickly learned how to cross the street. And you know how I learned?

Because I was struck by a motorist due to my stupidity. Freshman year, I was a member of the school’s cross country team, and because we were downtown, we practiced in the city. One day, I experienced the fabled “runner’s high,” which transformed the chore of running into an exhilarating experience that has never again been duplicated. On this particular day, we were practicing in one of the city’s parks, and as I came to the edge of the park, I was forced to make a right and run half a block down the street in order to cross safely at the light.

However, I elected not to do this. I quickly glanced to my right and noticed the light at the end of the block was red. I leaped the fence separating the street from the park, crossed the first lane, which was parked cars, through the second lane, which was stopped and backed up from the light, and into the third lane, where I was promptly struck. I rolled onto the hood, slamming my elbow into the windshield, which cracked from the impact. I rolled off the windshield, taking out the passenger side mirror and radio antenna before landing on my backside on the street.

Fortunately for me, I did more damage to the car then it did to me. The motorist stopped, I choked back tears from the embarrassment of being an idiot and running into the middle of a busy, downtown street, and my coach faked concern while stifling laughter. I jogged back to school, had our athletic trainer check me out, and headed home on the train. The incident, however, stuck with me. I would be called Pontiac the rest of my days by members of the team, including my aforementioned coach, who was my teacher junior year and never referred to me by name, only as “Pontiac.”

I dodged a bullet yesterday, but pedestrians should not assume motorists know what they are doing or are paying attention. Before you jump out in front of a car, make eye contact with the driver to confirm he is going to stop, even if he has a stop sign. I learned how to drive on a manual, therefore, I will probably never learn how to make a complete stop in my life, unless of course my luck runs out and I do kill somebody. Or maim a girl’s foot.