East Side Story

"Another hundred people just got off of the train and came up through the ground, while another hundred people just got off of the bus and are looking around at another hundred people who got off of the plane and are looking at us who got off of the train and the plane and the bus maybe yesterday..." -- Stephen Sondheim


42nd Street and Third Avenue. 8:58 AM on a Tuesday morning. I prepare to sprint across the avenue before the orange hand stops blinking. I glance up, notice that the opposite light has already turned yellow, slow my pace, and pivot to cross the street in the other direction. Dozens of pedestrians queue up behind me, next to me. Most carry coffee, some carry iPods, others carry newspapers. All of us will be late for work in two minutes.

A cab blows through the yellow light and attempts to drive past us, but he has nowhere to go. Rush-hour traffic sandwiches the vehicle; the front of the cab blocks the crosswalk and the back of the cab blocks part of the intersection.

My phalanx of pedestrians needs to get to work, though. Half of my throng crosses the street by squeezing through the one-foot gap between the cab's bumper and the SUV in front of it, while the rest of us dart into the intersection to loop around the cab's back end. All of us shoot dirty looks at the cab driver, and some of us shoot a few choice words at him as well. For a brief moment, midtown becomes Bedlam.

I pause on the opposite corner, waiting for the light to change so I can once again attempt to cross the avenue. To my left stands a uniformed traffic cop, passively staring at the cab, the crowd, and the chaos. She says nothing, does nothing.