I Gave Him the Finger

Maybe I need to be more chill.

That thought arrived, not for the first time, the other day.

I wasn’t thinking politics—about which I feel the need to be even more engaged. I was thinking about my day-to-day encounters with fellow humans.

I was in my car on 107th Street in Manhattan, just east of Broadway, when I underwent this particular revelation.

I had been driving slowly—not, mind you, just because I’m old. I was driving slowly mostly because I was, as I often am, looking for a parking spot—looking for a parking spot, as I am approximately half the time, on the okay-Tuesday/Friday side.

And suddenly this car—a gas-guzzler, I surmised—pulled up behind me and honked.

It honked although anyone stupid enough to be in a car in Manhattan would have to know that some percentage of the drivers here are going slowly because they are searching desperately for a place to park. And it takes a moment to determine whether any space between cars that somehow presents itself is (A) big enough and (B) not occupied by a fire hydrant.

Another honk.

  I am, you must understand, well versed in New York City automobile etiquette. I used to drive taxis on these mean streets, albeit 50 years ago. I know the rules from both sides—obeying and disobeying. But honking twice at a car that’s mostly moving: that’s unconscionable.

So, I pulled over on the right side of the street, leaving just enough room for that presumably over-large car to get by.

And then I did what upon occasion I find occasion to do while traversing the streets of Manhattan in my Hyundai: I rolled down the window, held up my left hand and gave him the finger.

He passed. Okay, it was a smallish Toyota. The light in front of us turned red, establishing, I thought, that even if I hadn’t been going slowly, he wouldn’t have made it across Broadway. His opinion on that question might, however, have differed.

And then, right after he stopped at the light, the guy opened his door and got out of his car. He was bigger than I am. He was younger than I am. He didn’t look pleased.

That large young man then proceeded to walk back toward my car. My window was still rolled down. He stopped and looked in. At least he doesn’t have a gun, I thought—not that I have ever seen a gun on the Upper West Side.

Then my antagonist said, in an aggrieved voice: “Why did you have to give me the finger?”

Did not see that question coming.

Why? Because one does, I thought. “Because you honked at me,” I said.

“But you were driving so slowly. You made me miss the light.”

“I was looking for a spot.”

“Oh. Well, you didn’t have to give me the finger.”

And that is when I had my epiphany.  It was: “He might be right.”

Maybe survival in this town doesn’t require consistently holding your ground and standing up for your rights. Maybe you don’t have to raise your voice to get service or make sure they know how much of an inconvenience they caused you.

Maybe even in this city and even in this politically divided country “Hey, what’s up?” is a more appropriate response than “What the hell do you think you are doing?”

Maybe I was being a little too Trump-like. Maybe I do need to take it down a notch.

So, I’m glad that guy decided to say something about me giving him the finger. Maybe—old dog that I am—I learned something.

Of course, the fact that I have learned something similar before, but apparently required re-learning it, is not a great sign.

Oh, and I found a parking spot—one that did not impinge upon any fire hydrants—right on the other side of Broadway.