A Traffic Light Is a Brainless Machine

David Schoenbrun

The "intellectualism" of the French is found at every level of society. The caféwaiter, the taxi driver—the so-called "little people" of France—are the most stimulating, if frequently frustrating, conversationalists in the world. Of them all, the most wildly creative are the taxi drivers. I deliberately provoke arguments with them—an easy thing to do—to see what they will say next. Of the hundreds of discussions I've had in taxis one remains in my memory as uniquely, superbly French. It couldn't have occurred in any other country, except possibly in Brooklyn, where there exists a species of man similar in spirit, if not in exact form, to the French.

It was midnight in Paris and we were rolling along the Quai d' Orsay toward the street where I live. As we came to the Pont Alexandre III, the taxi slowed down, for the traffic light was red. Then, without stopping, we sailed through the red light in a sudden burst of speed. The same performance was repeated at the Alma Bridge. As I paid the driver, I asked him why he had run two red lights.

"You ought to be ashamed of yourself, a veteran like you, breaking the law and endangering your life that way," I protested.

He looked at me, astonished. "Ashamed of myself? Why, I'm proud of myself. I am a decent, honest citizen and have no desire to get killed either." He cut me off as I started to protest. "No, just listen to me before you complain. What did I do? I went through a red light. Well, did you ever stop to consider what a red light is, what it means?"

"Certainly," I replied. "It's a stop signal and means that traffic is rolling in the other direction."

"Half-right," said the driver, "but incomplete. A red light is only an automatic stop signal. And it does not mean that there is cross traffic. Did you see any cross traffic during our trip? Of course not. I slowed down at the light, looked carefully to the right and to the left. There was not another car on the streets at this hour. Well, then! What would you have me do? Should I stop like a dumb animal because an automatic, brainless machine turns red every forty seconds? No, monsieur," he thundered, hitting the door with a huge fist. "I am a man, not a machine. I have eyes and a brain and judgment, given me by God, and it would be a sin against nature to surrender them to the dictates of a machine. Ashamed of myself, you say? I would only be ashamed of myself if I let those blinking lamps do my thinking for me. Good night, monsieur."

Is this bad, is this good? Frankly I no longer am sure. The intellectual originality of the French is a corrupting influence if you are subjected to it for long. I had never before doubted that it was wrong to drive through a red light. After more than a decade of life in Paris, however, I find my old Anglo-Saxon standards somewhat shaken. I still think it is wrong to drive through a stop signal, except possibly very late at night, after having carefully checked to make sure there is no cross traffic. After all, I am a man, not a machine.