The very first person to read my autobiography, “SEX WITH CHICKENS,” said to me, “You sure do hate jaywalkers, don’t you?” Me declaring war on jaywalkers was, perhaps, .01% of the book, but it impressed her a lot. There are several reasons why I hate the bastards; the #1 being that jaywalkers NEVER stop for pedestrians who are in the street legally. NEVER, unless forced to, by the likes of me. One time, on a beautiful late afternoon in Lake Tahoe, I was cruising eastbound (and down), on Highway 50, towards Nevada, in my taxi-cab when, what to my wondering eyes should appear? Standing in the absolute middle of the two-lanes-in-both-directions-with-a-2-way-left-turn-lane-in-the-middle, major transportation corridor, during what passed for ‘rush hour’ in South Lake Tahoe, was a visibly pregnant (about 7 1/2 months) nice looking young woman, pushing a baby stroller which, one could presume, contained a baby, standing in a clearly marked crosswalk, and NOBODY WAS STOPPING. I glanced over my right shoulder, to see if I could change lanes, cut the wheel HARD, and SLAMMED on the brakes. I straddled both lanes of traffic, stopping traffic back to the “Y.” NOBODY honked at me; they knew better than to fuck with an enraged MF like me. I sat there, along with 100 or so other cars, until she was safely on the sidewalk, then drove off. A sarcastic ‘tip of the hat’ to those wankers behind me: I don’t think there was a single rear-ender back there, which was amazing.
One time I was driving an ex-Nevada Highway Patrol cruiser, with two elderly couples in it, when about a dozen assholes stepped off the curb, about 50 feet away from a marked crosswalk, and commenced to jaywalk right in front of my taxi-cab. I immediately slammed the pedal to the metal, and aimed for the middle of the mob. That ex-cruiser had a 360 cid engine, with a 4-barrel that, when punched, sucks air like a mo-fo: WHOOSH. A red-lined engine, with a sucking carb, alerted those assholes that something was afoot. They all started screaming and running. It wasn’t even close; they all moved very fast. I noticed that there was a black couple in the mob who, I’m sure, believed that it was a “racist” thing and that I was targeting only them. No way, Ho-zay. A nice old lady, close to 80 years old, said to me, from the back seat, “Boy, young man, those people sure were asking to be killed.” I LOVE little old ladies, especially those who give me straight lines. I replied, “Yes, ma’am, and I’m the ANGEL OF DEATH.” Those folks (all four of them) laughed and cackled like they hadn’t done in, probably, decades.
Another time, in a different ex-police car, which had the same engine, I punched it and headed for the middle of a group of at least 30 people who were jaywalking, in a crosswalk, but against a red light. They all yelled, flipped me off, and ran like hell.
I almost ran over an asshole who stepped right in front of my moving cab. He might have been looking to make a bogus insurance claim. I slammed on the brakes, the cab stopping less than one foot away from the asshole. If there had been a push-bar on that cab, I would have hit him. I honked and he stood, right in front of the hood ornament, and gave me the finger. I had two even older couples in my cab, this time. I put the cab in park, turned off the waiting time on the meter, took off my seatbelt, picked up Mr. Crowbar off the floor, opened the door and got out. The jaywalker hadn’t moved. I looked back, in the cab and, I swear, all four of those geezers, none of whom had a sense of humor, were all clutching their chests, with their mouths wide open, gasping for air. I looked at the asshole, who looked like a deer in the headlights, then back at my passengers, and thought, “If I beat the shit out of this asshole, I’m going to have four cardiac arrests on my hands,” and got back in my cab, while the asshole sprinted across the street.
All these stories are just an introduction to my first encounter with an asshole jaywalker, whom I tried, with every atom in my body, to kill, after I gave him a sporting chance to save his life. 3 am, in the “dark” side of town, ADT car (POS ’63 Plymouth, 6-cylinder, 3-speed stick shift), 60 mph in a 25 zone, very wide street, nigger steps into the street on my left. The moment I see the asshole, I do several things; hit the high beams, downshift to second gear, jam the pedal to the floor, and aim my hood ornament at him like a rifle sight. The darkie stopped, almost turned back, which he should have done, but decided to cross the street anyway. As he moved, I moved, keeping that hood ornament centered on him. He quickly was running full-tilt, for the other side of the street, a good 50 feet away, as I was bearing down on him, maybe 200 feet away. That POS car topped out at 58 mph, in second gear. If I had left it in 3rd, I would have hit him before he made it halfway across. As he neared the parked cars, on the right, which offered him protection, I lined up about 6 inches from the parked cars and continued to race at him. I would have hit him if he had not dived, like Superman, for the parked cars. My car passed by the soles of his shoes, doing 58 mph, missing him by about 6 inches. I shifted to 3rd, turned off the high beams, flipped the mirror to the “day” position, and looked back. He didn’t get up. He must have done a face-plant on the asphalt or a header into the curb. Fuck him; if I would have hit him, I would have kept going. No witnesses and, if he had lived, absolutely no description of the car. Yes, I TRULY hate jaywalkers.