Wilkes-Barre's not such a bad place, especially when the weather's treating you well and you want to walk the lovely streets. On one such good-weather day, I decided to take a stroll. The planned route was down to the Pierce Street Bridge, over, to the Market Street Bridge, over, and back home. It was a nice plan for a nice day. It was also a day when I would lose a great deal of faith in humanity.

Not more than five minutes into my walk, I almost met my demise. I came to River Street, which I had to cross to get to the bridges. I looked both ways, like Big Bird, Mom, and Mr. T taught me, and I had plenty of room to cross. There was only one car on the road: a shiny black Cadillac. Surely they were out enjoying the lovely weather, like me. I stepped into the street.

Exhibit A: The Diagram

Since Wilkes-Barre blocks are hard to determine (because some are blocks and some are rectangular combinations of blocks because of missing through-streets), I can't tell you, in an easy way, how far away the Cadillac was. Trust my judgment though. I'm aware that I have a disability in my leg, small as it may be at times. I'm aware of how quickly I can move, and I realize that crossing the street is no time to stop and smell the asphalt. Keeping all of that in mind, I stepped out into the street.

Through my headphones (which I had turned down to "1" as I was crossing the street and had to be aware of shouting or sirens), I heard the black beast's engine rev. I looked down the street, in my general "chip on my shoulder" way, knowing full well that I still had plenty of time to cross the street. The car sped up to what had to be at least 50 MPH on a 35 MPH road. I did not pick up the pace. The way I figure, getting hit by a car could jazz up life a little bit. Sure it would hurt, but I could bounce back. And, in my mind, I knew that if this car was obeying the speed limit, I could certainly make it.

He was not obeying the posted speed limit. In fact, he was exceeding it and coming after me. I did not panic, I kept leisurely walking. The last thing you want to do to a bully is let them know they're getting to you. So I stepped on. He laid on the horn, as if he wanted to see terror in my face as he ran me down. I did not turn. As he zipped by me, not even bothering to take the outside lane (thereby avoiding me altogether), I could feel the speed of the Cadillac suck my aqua shirt back. He zoomed past, without decelerating one bit, and was literally inches away from running me over.

I was upset. One might say I was furious, but that takes far too much energy. I did not gesture, I did not scream, I did not react. I walked on and part of my respect for humanity died, because simply obeying the traffic laws would have prevented the whole event and would have hidden the blackness in the soul of the black Cadillac driver. I was seriously saddened by the experience.

Exhibit B: The Reenactment

That was a week and a half ago. The funny thing about Wilkes-Barre is that, despite it's recognition as a city (though in population and crime statistics it's combined with Scranton and Hazleton), it's actually a pretty small area. You always have to watch what you do on the streets, because you never know when someone will run into you again.

Today, I had my chance with the black Cadillac. As I walked back from lunch at the apartment, past Public Square and by the Blue Cross buildings, I noticed a woman with a limp crossing the street. It didn't stand out for any reason, until I heard a familiar horn. I looked over, and the black Cadillac was stopped dead in front of the woman, honking at her as if it would cure her limp and send her frolicking.

I couldn't help it. I raised my arm and pointed straight out. "That's the guy!" I shouted. People around me ignored me, because that's what you do in Wilkes-Barre. The foolish Cadillac pulled into Two Guys, or Two Brothers, or Two Stereotypical Italians Restaurant-- to get lunch! The beast eats, like you and me.

The car was parked, with the trunk blocking a driveway. I crossed the street and felt like an incredible mix of Sonny Crockett, Walker, Texas Ranger, and Lorenzo Lamas' character from Renegade (with a dash of A Team). I walked up to the car. It was loaded, leather interior and a nice stereo panel. It was spotless too. When you drive a death machine, you should keep it clean.

I walked to the restaurant. I stood outside, wondering what to do. I needed consultation. My only contact at the moment was Alisha Turull. Greg Kirschner was sleeping and Marissa Phillips was singing "Kum By Ya" with her newspaper team*. I caught Alisha up on the situation. She asked what I would do. She's not always readily available for advice.

At this point, the driver, an overweight older man who had suspenders and no chin, was already back in his car. I stalked him down the street. He only pulled ahead a bit past me, to the 1-Hour Cleaners. By this time I was back at the King's bookstore, across the street. I was faced with the behavioral decision to a) punch him, b) spit on his shiny car, c) break his thumbs so he can't drive, d) do nothing, or e) heckle him from across the street.

Some of you may not know, but I've been known to boo people in public. Obviously, I picked E. I yelled about the black Cadillac, that almost killed me and a limping woman, sitting in the parking lot across the street. The guy heard me. He looked over, right at me. I shouted on. He looked very confused, and I understand that, but he knew what he'd done. He hung up his clothes and got back in his car. He drove off and I watched him the whole time.

I was only partially vindicated in the act, as people scream all the time in Wilkes-Barre. One day soon, I'll meet him again, and then I'll have a camera and I'll get a name. He shall be shamed on PPO, because I have no other use for this site. But, I feel that I sent part of the message to this man: you just don't mess with me, or anybody else on my watch. Some might say, "Eventually he'll hit someone and have to pay the price." I say I can save a life before it comes to that. Some say, "You shouldn't be jaywalking in the first place." Have you been to Wilkes-Barre? The original engineers had to be imbecilic primates. All these one-way streets and streets that don't cross through. Come on. I feel no shame, and I look forward to the next meeting with the monstrous black Cadillac that almost claimed my life.

*Marissa and The Beacon staff, from Wilkes University, probably didn't sing "Kum By Ya," but they were working on community-building exercises and planning future issues. And damnit, sometimes you can go months without a "Kum By Ya" joke-- you take them when you got them.