This evening I was hit by a cab at W 62nd and Central Park West. The car's bumper hit me in the knee, sent my bag flying. The driver had seen me, put on his brakes, sort of skidded into me, which is why I'm just firmly bumped (and stunned, seriously stunned) rather than run over.
The cab driver who seemed nice when I was stunned and injured now seems incredibly manipulative, probably deceitful. I stood on one leg under a tiny awning, huddling against the rain, as the cab driver offered to give me "a little something" not to file a report, and I declined, asking repeatedly towards the street, towards no one, to authority figures not present: what now, what do I do? People freshly whacked by cars are notoriously easy to manipulate. The cops said I should have stayed on the scene and called 911 -- in the rain, in the cold. Instead, I got into the warm cab, and listened for ten minutes as the cab driver told me he could see I was a good woman because I didn't "pretend to fall down," as so many people do, these people who deliberately jump in front of cabs. I had just left a tutoring job on Central Park West, prim in my Audrey-Hepburn-as-schoolteacher dress; is this a profile of a cab-jumper? A bump is now rising on my hand, from where I tried, Superman-style, to stop the car. When I got home, I saw what the cab had done to my stockings.
The ambulance came and my apartment was full of paramedics; they said that I could go to the hospital, but I'd probably just be made to wait for hours in the waiting room, given painkillers and sent home. Still here; knee still hurts. For those longtime readers of the blog -- when my ex-cowboy was hit by a cab, he of course was taken to the hospital and I sped right there. But he had a broken collarbone, and I merely have a banged-up knee, a bent laptop, and a propensity for calling numbers in my cell phone and asking "What? What now?"
Practically speaking, tomorrow I go to the police station to file a civilian accident report.
The cops came to my place and waited until the ambulance arrived; while one cop went down to direct the paramedics upstairs, the other observed me, sitting on my couch, weeping for no real reason other than a sharp glimpse of death -- death-perhaps-now is a hard reminder of death-certainly-later -- and he asked, ever so helpfully, "Are you married?"
I am still having a comedy show tomorrow night (well, tonight, Monday). I am trying to get a ride there from one of the other comics so as to avoid the subway. Come to Pete's if you'd like to say hello.
Monday, January 30th
The After-School Comedy Special
Pete's Candy Store
(L train to Lorimer -- see map)
7:30-9pm
Free
Featuring Baron Vaughn, Carolyn Castiglia, Liz Miele, Andrew Wright, and Shawn Hollenbach.
The After-School Comedy Special mixes performances by top young comedians with nostalgic diversions including free candy, and Mad Libs.
The cab driver who seemed nice when I was stunned and injured now seems incredibly manipulative, probably deceitful. I stood on one leg under a tiny awning, huddling against the rain, as the cab driver offered to give me "a little something" not to file a report, and I declined, asking repeatedly towards the street, towards no one, to authority figures not present: what now, what do I do? People freshly whacked by cars are notoriously easy to manipulate. The cops said I should have stayed on the scene and called 911 -- in the rain, in the cold. Instead, I got into the warm cab, and listened for ten minutes as the cab driver told me he could see I was a good woman because I didn't "pretend to fall down," as so many people do, these people who deliberately jump in front of cabs. I had just left a tutoring job on Central Park West, prim in my Audrey-Hepburn-as-schoolteacher dress; is this a profile of a cab-jumper? A bump is now rising on my hand, from where I tried, Superman-style, to stop the car. When I got home, I saw what the cab had done to my stockings.
The ambulance came and my apartment was full of paramedics; they said that I could go to the hospital, but I'd probably just be made to wait for hours in the waiting room, given painkillers and sent home. Still here; knee still hurts. For those longtime readers of the blog -- when my ex-cowboy was hit by a cab, he of course was taken to the hospital and I sped right there. But he had a broken collarbone, and I merely have a banged-up knee, a bent laptop, and a propensity for calling numbers in my cell phone and asking "What? What now?"
Practically speaking, tomorrow I go to the police station to file a civilian accident report.
The cops came to my place and waited until the ambulance arrived; while one cop went down to direct the paramedics upstairs, the other observed me, sitting on my couch, weeping for no real reason other than a sharp glimpse of death -- death-perhaps-now is a hard reminder of death-certainly-later -- and he asked, ever so helpfully, "Are you married?"
I am still having a comedy show tomorrow night (well, tonight, Monday). I am trying to get a ride there from one of the other comics so as to avoid the subway. Come to Pete's if you'd like to say hello.
Monday, January 30th
The After-School Comedy Special
Pete's Candy Store
(L train to Lorimer -- see map)
7:30-9pm
Free
Featuring Baron Vaughn, Carolyn Castiglia, Liz Miele, Andrew Wright, and Shawn Hollenbach.
The After-School Comedy Special mixes performances by top young comedians with nostalgic diversions including free candy, and Mad Libs.
VIEW 6 of 6 COMMENTS
Well, I hope your knee gets better. From my experience as a pedicab driver, most taxi drivers have no regard for anyone else on the road, wheels or no wheels. I usually do all I can to avoid taxis.