Peter Cassimatis, San Clemente
It was a tough morning at Sally’s house—the kids were pokey-slow getting ready for school. Her husband was in a foul mood and her boss texted her that the morning meeting was critical because her real estate sale was falling through. She rushed the kids out the door and drove them to school, dropping them off with a perfunctory “Love You,” and headed for the meeting. She was driving Coast Highway northbound when her phone rang—it was the boss. I better take it, she thought.
Harry was a little more than lightly hung over. He and his buddies had partied well into the night in their rented condo on Coast Highway, and the effects were tantamount to a World of Warfare game going on in his head. Regardless, he hauled out of bed and checked the surf report—the break at Doheny was perfect! So he grabbed his surfboard, plugged in his earphones, cranked up Metallica and headed to the crosswalk.
Harry had the light, so he started across PCH, rocking out to his favorite tunes—Sally dropped her cell phone, reached to pick it up and never saw the crosswalk light.
So Harry met Sally—in the middle of Coast Highway, in the shadow of what used to be a pedestrian bridge separating foot traffic from auto traffic—said bridge being torn down because it was ”too expensive” to repair and “blocked views.”
When Harry met Sally met George. …
It was a tough morning at Sally’s house—the kids were pokey-slow getting ready for school. Her husband was in a foul mood and her boss texted her that the morning meeting was critical because her real estate sale was falling through. She rushed the kids out the door and drove them to school, dropping them off with a perfunctory “Love You,” and headed for the meeting. She was driving Coast Highway northbound when her phone rang—it was the boss. I better take it, she thought.
Harry was a little more than lightly hungover. He and his buddies had partied well into the night in their rented condo on Coast Highway, and the effects were tantamount to a World of Warfare game going on in his head. Regardless, he hauled out of bed and checked the surf report—the break at Doheny was perfect! So he grabbed his surfboard, plugged in his earphones, cranked up Metallica and headed to the crosswalk.
Harry had the light, so he started across PCH, rocking out to his favorite tunes—Sally dropped her cell phone, reached to pick it up and never saw the crosswalk light, or George stop in front of her to let Harry cross.
So Harry met Sally met George…any separation of auto traffic from pedestrians is preferable to “sharing the road,” or too often, not “sharing the road.”
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