It’s a tricky intersection, especially when you’re on a bike in the middle of it. Cars coming from the south that look to turn left onto Chelsea take the turn very tightly, so I try to stay a few feet back from the white line so I don’t get clipped.
There’s also traffic coming down the hill next to the firehouse, creating confusion as to who at their respective stop sign–the folks on Chelsea or the folks on Frankford sort of across the way–got there first, and who has the right of way.
A guy driving a mini school bus (we had a name for the mini school bus when I was a kid, but we don’t use that term anymore, now that we have kids and are older and more sensitive) waved me on.
He was 50 and had a wispy moustache and brown skin.
I nodded my appreciation; I’m always thankful when people give the person on the bike the right of way, as had happened moments before when a mom who’d dropped the kid off at elementary school camp gave me the green light at Memorial Drive.
I looked both ways. A Lexus SUV was barreling southbound on Elwood, so I waited to cross.
In the meantime–as in, three seconds later–the man driving the sawed off bus proceeded to go through the stop sign, cutting right in front of me before turning onto Chelsea.
He gave me a brief, effeminate wave–essentially a jazz hand–as he crept in front of me.
Put another way, he gave me the right of way, then took it back. (We also had a phrase for acts such as that when I was a kid, but don’t say that anymore…By the way, anyone else notice that sitting “Indian-style” has been replaced by the quease-inducing “criss-cross applesauce”? WTF?).
Mr. Busdriver recalled his wave the way a PR flack recalls an erroneous press release.
Well, driver of the truncated bus, I recall my nod of thanks.
See you tomorrow.