One Grows Tired of So Many De-Escalations

Thirty minutes ago, as I walked on Orange Avenue near my home, I was nearly struck by a motorist pulling out of a driveway. He did not look both ways for pedestrians, and his Subaru Impreza nearly sent me flying into the street. In fear and indignation, I shouted at him. “Dude, look where the hell you’re going!” I slammed my palm against the side of his car.

The guy slammed on his brakes, reversed into his driveway, and jumped out of his car. Twenty years my junior, fifty pounds heavier. “What the fuck, man?” His fists are clenched.

We stare at each other, each doing an assessment presumably encoded into our genes and ancestral memory. Can I take him? How far will this go? Will it hurt? Will I go to jail?
(I do note that in other neighborhoods — and in other parts of this country — I might also need to assess if he’s carrying a gun. A Subaru in Hollywood makes that unlikely, I decide.)

I return to the point.”You almost ran me over. I’ve been nearly hit before on this street. I’m asking you to please be careful.” My voice is calm and firm, even as adrenaline courses through me.

”You didn’t have to hit my car,” the man says, his rage softening to reproach.

”I was scared shitless,” I say. I only use vulgarities when they serve a very clear purpose, and here, I can tell they will, just as I know that centering my own fear rather than his poor driving is probably a good gambit. (I can also attest that this is not good marriage advice, but it does work in psych hospitals and jails.)

We stare at each other some more. I raise my hands, show him empty palms. “I’m just asking you to be careful, brother. Just, please.”

He nods. Then softly, what sounds like a genuine, “I’m sorry.”

I tell him it all’s good, and I wish him a good night, and he wishes me the same, and I continue walking, thinking that my own foolishness turned one danger into two. I think also that I am grateful to have lived the sort of life where both trade and necessity have made me a fairly good diplomat. I can de-escalate well.

And yet, it could have been otherwise.

I should like to live somewhere where there are fewer cars. On my evening strolls, I sometimes find myself on the Hollywood Walk of Fame, and so I step on hundreds of stars, but I would rather be able to look up and see them. You cannot see the Dipper or Orion’s Belt even on a clear night here. Our light pollution is constant. I want to live where people are less angry, where I do not have to ask the clerk at the store to unlock the case where toothpaste is kept, where I do not have to step over bodies of the drugged and the despairing as they sprawl on the sidewalk, where I do not have to wonder if my evening perambulations — so necessary for my mental health — do not risk depriving my children of a father.

I choose to stay in L.A. because I have L.A. kids, and they have an L.A. mom, and I will not put my hunger for solitude, stars, and the sound of cicadas above my obligations to show up every day for these people. It just means, I suppose, I’ll have to keep my conflict resolution skills very sharp — and maybe, buy a fluorescent vest for my walks.