‘Sprinting,’ he said. “Me, at 60, sprinting!”
Needless to say those are the words of my mate Barney, whom regular readers will instantly recognise as a man whose composition is a scalene triangle of sorts — the wrong sorts — those components being minuscule scamster, molecule fraudster, giant prankster.
Today, however, he appears genuinely shaken. Although he is of olive complexion, it is apparent his visage has paled. The listener of course — me on this occasion — is expected to guide Barney into his narrative, for he enjoys the spotlight, but will not jump in there unescorted. This is his tribute to humility!
So I enquire: “What happened, Barney?” and settle back, for people like Barney need no further assistance.
“The road transport authority ought to rethink their terminology for pedestrian crossings,” he begins, not uncharacteristically jumping into the middle of the story before he can work his way to the beginning.
“They ought to call it a leopard crossing. It’s certainly no place for zebras nowadays, not after what I just experienced. Never ever used to happen in the good old days. But we didn’t have multiculturalism back then either,” he grumbles.
“How is multiculturalism to blame?” I get in, only to find him prepared with an answer.
“Do you know in some European countries — Paris maybe, but don’t quote me — a motorist can drive over a pedestrian crossing if the pedestrian hasn’t placed his foot on the crossing first!”
“So?”
“So can you imagine taking on a car, Kevin? Don’t answer that because I’ve just survived a Parisian in Sydney, possibly, so I know what it is, without forewarning, without adequate warm-up to go from being ordinary Mr Grocery-bags-in-hand to Usain Bolt, a jaguar leaping across the zebra.”
Nature of existence
Back in my hometown, I tell him, there were neither pedestrian crossings nor traffic lights. You negotiated your fate with the truck driver although, admittedly, the odd truck driver was as rare as a kookaburra in an Indian backyard.
“It’s going to take deaths, Kevin, before regulations undergo change. That’s the nature of existence. History is replete with examples of senseless sacrifice before sanity prevailed. How about a cup of coffee? I could certainly do with one to soothe the old nerves. One gets jumpier as one gets older though that’s no excuse to ask a man to sprint helter-skelter across a crossing.”
In between sips, we discuss the most recent tragedy that took the lives of so many kindergarten children in the US.
“How does one out-run a bullet, eh Barney?” I ask.
“Thank you for putting my pathetic grumble in perspective, Kev,” he replies, chastened.
We move away from the darkness of the topic and end up discussing television — he’s taking in the Louis Theroux series as well as, for the art of it and the relaxation it affords, the latest season of So You Think You Can Dance.
“Also a series of Survivor that wife hired for me from the video shop,” he informs me, with a knowing wink. “I think that’s one of her cryptic messages,” he adds, “seeing as how many times I’ve driven her to the brink! But seriously, you need to watch some of the episodes, Kevin. Provides insight into the human spirit and the powers of endurance. I’m not sure I could eat worms or cicadas, but then again,” he says, reaching for the grocery bag, “I have instant access to food — tomatoes, cucumbers, apples. If I didn’t, who knows, eh? One has to eat to survive, right?”
One has to read as well, I reckon. And if all my readers are reading this, it is clear indication we’ve survived the Mayan miscalculation, the world hasn’t ended and here we are on the threshold of another year, we are survivors and may we continue to use our skills.
As Carrie Ryan says in The Dark and Hollow Places: “Survivors aren’t always the strongest. Sometimes they’re the smartest, but more often simply the luckiest.”
Kevin Martin is a journalist based in Sydney, Australia.
