Yesterday I was jaywalking. For my international readers, this is a totally legitimate tradition of the American working class. The light’s not green – so what? Make it green. Pull yourself up by your bootstraps and walk across that street – whether the light is with you or not. That’s the American Way.
So I was carrying on this incredibly honorable American tradition, walking against the light across a street in quiet old Connecticut, when someone driving a fancy fancy Mini cuts me off and gives me the finger.
“Cool your jets, fella,” I said, as I jogged across the street. I looked up. There was a big, big truck waving me across the road. The driver clearly sympathized with my needs. We made eye contact and I saw in that brief, electric moment that he understood. He had jaywalked before, maybe yesterday. Maybe just this morning. And he valued the independence of the statement I was making – I am a rebel, who cannot be held back by streetlights and bougie cars and asshole drivers hogging the roads. No! I am an American, I live the life of the free, in the home of the brave, and we jaywalk. Especially when those we jaywalk against are driving fancy foreign cars.