I was walking down the avenue, there was a distinguished, messianic-looking, dread-locked, gentlemen standing on the sidewalk. It was a sunny, blue-sky day, we were both smiling, and we nodded at each other as I walked past. The Dread started speaking, (was it in tongues, a different language?), I turned back and looked him directly in the eye. Deep dark pools, with bright shiny sparks. He pointed a long, bony finger at me and said something completely unintelligible. To my ears it sounded something like this: "Hoorambachookaw!" I surmised it was some kind of ancient Rasta hex. But for some reason, I didn't feel cursed. Maybe it was a "good hex," you know, maybe that Rastaman was wishing me a good, prosperous life, or great health, or good luck? Sure. Why not? I nodded, smiled, and went on my way.
Later in the evening, maybe that little hex of luck came in handy.
I was standing at an intersection, waiting for the light to turn green, perched on my bicycle, ready to go. Cars whizzing by, a busy Friday evening, everyone with somewhere to go. The light clicked, green for me, that little stick figure person on the sign was lit up telling me to go. I entered the intersection on my bicycle and instinctively looked to my left. A car was barreling thru a red light, heading right for me, I stopped, I had a moment of complete helplessness, it looked like there was no escape. I'm not sure what I thought in that fraction of a moment, maybe something like: "This is how it happens..."
I could see a man at the wheel, a woman in the passenger seat, looks of horror on their faces. The driver punched the brake, tires squealed, the car sort of fish-tailed towards the curb. The car stopped in a lurch about 5 feet from me. How many close calls do you get? How close was this one? A few seconds more, and well, not to be overly-dramatic, it could have been mayhem. The driver and I exchanged meaningful glances, then he motioned for me to move on. I did, sort of shaking my head, my body alive, on-fire, a sharp flash of fear running thru my veins.
What the hell... how many close calls, do you get? I whispered a heartfelt thanks to my morning Rasta Man and rode on home. O Lucky Man!
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