A sign. Not a stop sign. Nonetheless the driver stopped. I had to, too. Then I got rear-ended. It's a sign.

I was driving West on 26th Avenue to pick up my daughter at high school.  And a Mercedes SUV is in front of me, driving very slowly.  It comes to a stop, in the middle of the street.  I am so paranoid at this point re the Bodysnatchers who live in my neighborhood that I think the driver is doing this on purpose.  To show me in an aggressive-aggressive way that I drive too quickly on the streets which double as (1) tennis courts; (2) playgrounds: (3) chalkboards.

I honked.  (I may deserve to be paranoid.  I don't drive to be liked.)  The SUV did not move.  And in my rear view mirror, I see an oncoming pick up truck trying to slow down.  "Please slow down in time" I think.  Boom.  It doesn't.  

Everything is quiet and I am shaking.  I am fine physically but shaken up.  The SUV remains still.  And then the driver door opens and a man of indeterminate age gets out, w a sheath of papers in one hand and focused eyes on the ground.  Three kids get out.  Two small ones wander on to the street, demonstrating the strength of genetic predisposition.

Long story short: a really nice man who had never had an accident rear-ended me.  He was a gentleman, responsible and kind.  A guy who stopped his SUV in the middle of the street and idled his engine and ignored the horn from the car stopped behind him caused an accident then pulled over to the curb, emptied his car of kids and walked into his house.

So the streets of Stapleton serve another purpose: parking lot.

The sign?  I have to move.