Life in the big city
Thus far, 6 men have been robbed and brutally beaten within, oh, 6 blocks of my apartment. Last night, one man fended off a group of attackers at an intersection I can see from my window.
All of this makes me really glad that for two-three months, starting next week, I get to walk half a mile to and from my car because our condo board, in its infinite wisdom, has decided to start yet another pointless construction project while completely ignoring things like cave-like lighting in the hallways and our crap-tastic windows. I almost landed a parking spot around the corner, but it looks like I'm stuck walking for the duration. Have I mentioned that I'll likely be returning from Evanston after dark every single day next quarter? I'm really thrilled about that prospect. I suppose I should get a new cartridge for my pepper spray, to replace the one my dry cleaner managed to use on himself (not entirely certain how sewing on a button entailed trying out the pepper spray in my pocket, but whatever...I've yet to be pleased with anything he's done for me, so not a problem in the future.)
But for the time being, I'm still fuming about what happened today while I was in a taxi. See, I was enjoying the beautiful day--window down, perfect weather, driving down Michigan Avenue, when suddenly a motorcyclist passed the taxi and spat angrily. Through the open window. In my face.
When we pulled up next to him at the next light, the driver asked him why he had spat on me. The motorcyclist, who I suspect suffers from a surplus of testosterone, launched into a tirade about how the taxi had cut him off and tried to kill him before asking, in the manner of your average thug from a mobster flick, what the cabbie was going to do about it. He stood up from his motorcycle, as if he couldn't wait to start a fight then and there, at Michigan and Oak. I really wanted to mention that if he was so concerned about dying he should wear a helmet, but that didn't seem appropriate, as I was on the other side of the car and this guy would most likely lash out at the driver who was defending my honor. (He proceeded to shoot off onto LSD and weave through traffic...did I mention the excess testosterone?)
It really bothers me that I didn't get his plate number and call the police. I mean, he seemed to be totally unconcerned about the fact that he spat in my face for something I didn't do, and it would be really satisfying to see him fined for...well...hmm. Public indecency? Misconduct of some kind? Plus I'm pretty sure he could be fined for the missing helmet, not to mention his driving habits.
I wonder if I'd be this unsatisfied with the outcome if I had been the one yelling at him, instead of the driver. Damsel in distress is not a role to which I am accustomed.
All of this makes me really glad that for two-three months, starting next week, I get to walk half a mile to and from my car because our condo board, in its infinite wisdom, has decided to start yet another pointless construction project while completely ignoring things like cave-like lighting in the hallways and our crap-tastic windows. I almost landed a parking spot around the corner, but it looks like I'm stuck walking for the duration. Have I mentioned that I'll likely be returning from Evanston after dark every single day next quarter? I'm really thrilled about that prospect. I suppose I should get a new cartridge for my pepper spray, to replace the one my dry cleaner managed to use on himself (not entirely certain how sewing on a button entailed trying out the pepper spray in my pocket, but whatever...I've yet to be pleased with anything he's done for me, so not a problem in the future.)
But for the time being, I'm still fuming about what happened today while I was in a taxi. See, I was enjoying the beautiful day--window down, perfect weather, driving down Michigan Avenue, when suddenly a motorcyclist passed the taxi and spat angrily. Through the open window. In my face.
When we pulled up next to him at the next light, the driver asked him why he had spat on me. The motorcyclist, who I suspect suffers from a surplus of testosterone, launched into a tirade about how the taxi had cut him off and tried to kill him before asking, in the manner of your average thug from a mobster flick, what the cabbie was going to do about it. He stood up from his motorcycle, as if he couldn't wait to start a fight then and there, at Michigan and Oak. I really wanted to mention that if he was so concerned about dying he should wear a helmet, but that didn't seem appropriate, as I was on the other side of the car and this guy would most likely lash out at the driver who was defending my honor. (He proceeded to shoot off onto LSD and weave through traffic...did I mention the excess testosterone?)
It really bothers me that I didn't get his plate number and call the police. I mean, he seemed to be totally unconcerned about the fact that he spat in my face for something I didn't do, and it would be really satisfying to see him fined for...well...hmm. Public indecency? Misconduct of some kind? Plus I'm pretty sure he could be fined for the missing helmet, not to mention his driving habits.
I wonder if I'd be this unsatisfied with the outcome if I had been the one yelling at him, instead of the driver. Damsel in distress is not a role to which I am accustomed.