Never a Dull Walk

My daily walk down Grace Street is like an hour with a schizophrenic companion.

Let's take today, for instance.

From behind, I hear my name called by a bicyclist.

Coming abreast of me, I see it's my former mailman.

This one guy delivered the mail to me for the entire thirteen years I lived on Floyd Avenue in the Museum District.

It could also be noted that for thirteen years my beagle barked at this man six days a week despite the mailman greeting him by name.

But I digress.

Out of nowhere comes my former carrier who stops to chat with me about my walk, some of my former neighbors and what he's been up to.

After ten minutes, he pedals on and I begin to ruminate about how the encounter was so Richmond.

I've been gone from Floyd Avenue for over six years now and he not only remembers my name and the dog's, but recognizes me from the back.

As I'm basking in my medium-sized city glow, I begin to hear a high-pitched screech as I approach the corner of Grace and Meadow.

It's not quite a siren, but just as loud. All of a sudden, a black truck careens around the corner, its front end smashed in badly.

It's making all kinds of noises like it's about to explode.

The driver crashes into the first car parked on the south side of Grace Street.

But rather than stop, he begins to back up at an alarming speed into the intersection.

That's when I knew to get off of the sidewalk and take refuge in the narrow space between two houses.

The guy lurches up Grace Street and suddenly pulls right, crashing into another car.

The keening sound is even worse now.

Once more he backs up and starts up the street in fits and starts.

Now I hear sirens for real. First one cop comes around the corner, followed by a second and eventually two more from the other direction.

He tries to drive on and finally stops. I wait to make sure nothing else is going to happen before I return to the sidewalk.

Walking up toward the capture scene (and home), I become part of the communal conversation of walkers and bikers who just witnessed something out of a cliched chase scene in a movie.

Was he drunk or drugged up? What happened? Is he going to run? So glad I didn't park my car on the street today!

A few blocks on and life was back to normal. Students were milling around between classes and cars headed west on Grace not knowing about the major blockage they'd soon face.

Once again, Grace Street, with its split personality, had delivered the good, the bad and the ugly.

Why would I want to walk anywhere else?