Sometimes I wish that I had my own private sidewalk…but, then again, I like to people watch too much so that much exclusivity would seem more like a prison than a perk.
I’ve somehow become more aware of sidewalk etiquette lately. Actually the expanding lack thereof. It’s interesting what catches one’s attention.
The sidewalks of New Orleans are not only quite narrow, dodging uneven pavement, gaping missing segments and uncovered utility access holes present an added challenge in getting from point A to point B.
Sprinkle the sidewalk hoarders into the mix and you have your own little urban obstacle course. You know who I’m talking about. Those couples who walk, hand in hand, from the curb to the wall. Or the group of three who traverse the walkways in an offensive lineman formation forcing you into the street with great likelihood of being hit by an inattentive tourist desperately trying to navigate the one way streets.
When I see the lineman walkers moving toward me I somehow have a strange urge to throw a football. But I temporarily step to the street, at moderate risk of being run over by some guy driving while attempting to do his taxes or perhaps a hostile corporate takeover entirely via text messaging.
I know that I’m not in the minority here; perhaps I must accept the challenge to speak for the silently frustrated…I hope to prove equal to the task.
For those who are quick to discount or naysay, citing the fact that I don’t OWN the sidewalks…as a matter of fact, I DO. My money, and your’s, pays for the upkeep of these public rights of way. (insert jaded wild laughter here if you‘re an Orleans Parish resident) Even the tourists temporarily own these narrow passages via the chunk of tax revenue that they bring to this fine city.
I simply choose to exercise common courtesy and yield to those who may be late for work, those who might need a little extra room, those with wheelchairs, those carrying groceries and, perhaps, those who simply creep me out to a level that sparks an inherent desire deep from within to allow them to pass…far away from me…quickly.
Being the proud part owner of a piece of historic municipality I simply exercise my neighborly duty and recognize that my co-owners need space too. Just because we all own a piece of the sidewalk doesn’t mean that we can do with it what we will.
One might make the argument that if you own something you can do whatever you want with it. Not true.
I solely owned properties over the years and it did not afford me the right to do with them as I pleased. For instance, if I were to decide to take my property and open an establishment named Johnny’s Deep Fried Frog Balls and Daiquiri Stand, I’m sure it would have been met with steep opposition and stymied before I could introduce my fellow neighbors to the potential delectable combination of balls and booze. As a side note, all of my servers would be hot girls wearing thong bikinis.
I also couldn’t, as a sole property owner, run an establishment which violated understood prurient community standards. Such as, say, a house of ill repute. For the record, my escort service would only employ midgets (sorry, I meant little people). Little people who are on crack and into S & M. Who knows? Perhaps there’s a market for such a service, but I have executed zero qualitative or quantitative research to confirm such a need in this market for those services.
On my private property, I also cannot whip it out and urinate in public view. It becomes a tort violation which would result in an indecent exposure charge. Try explaining that one to the special gems of humanity who regularly avail themselves to the New Orleans sidewalks for bladder relief.
I also own a vehicle, as do many others. There are things in which owning a car also does not give me an inherent right to do. Some Illegal, some common courtesy. Things such as drinking and driving (sharing the road is a lot like sharing a sidewalk). I can’t run over anyone as I please; sometime’s I’d like to, but you just can’t kill or maim people without consequence. Unless you’re on the Danziger bridge post Katrina…wait, consequences ARE indeed unfolding in that unfortunate situation.
I can, however, drive as close to the curb as humanly possible, within inches of the pedestrians in the Quarter. I can splash puddles of Bourbon sludge water onto everyone. I use the term water loosely by the way. Those puddles are filed with a lovely combination of rain, beer, nasty remnants of a horrible grain alcohol beverage served in an annoying, eco-unfriendly, neon green container fashioned in the likeness of a hand propelled military ordinate, urine and God only knows what else.
It’s not a legal violation to anyone if I so choose to do that; I simply choose not to do so…because it’s not right.
Which brings me back to the sidewalks. It’s simple actually.
We all appreciate the pure, undying, fairy tale, romance novel affection that two people share at such depths that they feel as though they’ve literally lost a human limb if, by chance, their hands become separated for a couple of seconds.
I promise, you won’t be traumatized to the point of throwing yourself to the curb in the fetal position. You also, most likely, won’t die (unless the guy doing his banking via text messaging loses control and drives onto the sidewalk). You two lovebirds will be swiftly reunited just as soon as the person who is also trying to share the sidewalk passes. Most likely vomiting from your public display of affection.
As for the three or four pals who form the human roadblock, placing the rest of us in harm’s way as we detour to the street….KNOCK IT OFF! It simply MUST be abundantly clear that you guys are just being downright greedy. Sidewalk whores if you will.
As for me, I will continue my tradition of making way while sharing the sidewalk. Sadly, I will probably continue to make the quick detour when someone chooses to be a pavement hoarder.
The bright spot is that when my business venture opens I plan to pay extra money to have the sidewalk widened in front of the place, no matter what the cost. A pedestrian oasis if you will.
Just watch your step so that you don’t accidentally step on one of my “little people” on their crack break while eating deep friend amphibious nads with a cool and refreshing daiquiri.
If I were a rich man…indeed. Sigh.
copyright Pontchartrain Press 2010
(I'm not sure why, but a friend talked me into copyrighting this today)
