Stopped
My dad and I one time were coming back from him picking me up from somewhere when I was in high school and we were at a stoplight at a highway crossroad. We maybe were talking about something, he may have been offering me a highminded moral ideal of what he would have done in any given situation, and I was probably drifting off thinking about a boy, or something else I'd rather be doing. It's very possible too that we weren't even talking, or my dad was stretching his neck forward, setting his jaw, cursing the red light under breath, because see, red lights had it in for him most of the time, they were generally out to get him, and they made a concerted effort when he approached them to quickly turn to red to slow him from getting places he needed to be RIGHT NOW.
I do remember looking at the car in front of us, the first one to have reached the stoplight, and seeing the back bald head of the man who was living his life about 30 seconds in front of us, making choices about going somewhere that day, getting in his car, pulling out of his driveway, making turns and leaving places in order to get right there just at that moment, right ahead of the line of traffic, #1, the first car to pull out when green said go...
As fate would have it the stoplight* did turn green, and he probably would have been wise to have done the "one thousand one, one thousand two" counting thing recommended by the Bureau of Motor Vehicles before proceeding into traffic, but he didn't, and from the other side, The Dude in the Green Torrino barrelled through the barely lit red light suggesting he stop, and instead he broadsided Mr. #1 in line.
Before my dad could finish saying, "Bear, stay in the car..." I was out of the passenger seat and around the front of his car headed to the smash up. I got to Mr. #1 first and his barrelled chest was locked tight and secure in a seatbelt, but his head was laying back on the headrest and his mouth wide open, his eye glazed over and barely open. I knew he was close to dead, and I patted his still warm shoulder. Next, I ran over to the other car and Dude, probably in his 30's was unbelted and smashed up against his steering wheel, his right arm stuck against the steering column and mangled, and his face bloodied, his glasses kind of driven into the bridge of his nose. I looked down and saw he was struggling with something in his shaking left hand and saw that he was trying to put a plastic baggie of pot in his sock. I knelt down and asked him if he was o.k. then he nodded, he was quivering and I think going into shock, so I gently took the bag from him and put it down my shirt.
My dad came over to me and asked me how Dude was and I said he was going to need the squad and he looked at me with fatherly concern about what I had just witnessed, he put his hands on my shoulders, swallowed and said, "The other man... I think is dead."
("....And now, he's not only merely dead, he's really most sincerely dead....")
I said, "Yeah, I know."
He said, "Ok, get back in the car. I'll wait out here until the police come."
Later after we got home, we relayed the story to my mom and she stared at me and then back at my dad in disbelief and worry, and he gave me a sympathetic look and they exchanged a knowing glance, and he said to me with a sigh, "You can cry now."
I was confused. Because it hadn't occurred to me to cry even once. I was exhilerated. I wanted to talk about it and rehash the drama, talk about scenarios of how #1 maybe could have avoided his fate, I wanted to tell them about Dude and all his blood, I wanted to wonder about what it would have been like to treat them as an emergency worker if I had been one because I think I could have given #1 a fighting chance had I known CPR, I really wanted to be commended for my fast action and admired for my presence of mind and bravery. The last thing I wanted was to be treated like a little girl...
But instead, I offered him a few whimpers to appease his manly need and hugged both my parents, and then wandered up to my bathroom and took the plastic baggie out of my bra and flushed the contents down the toilet.
*In honor of Black History Month: http://education.dot.gov/aboutmorgan.html
I do remember looking at the car in front of us, the first one to have reached the stoplight, and seeing the back bald head of the man who was living his life about 30 seconds in front of us, making choices about going somewhere that day, getting in his car, pulling out of his driveway, making turns and leaving places in order to get right there just at that moment, right ahead of the line of traffic, #1, the first car to pull out when green said go...
As fate would have it the stoplight* did turn green, and he probably would have been wise to have done the "one thousand one, one thousand two" counting thing recommended by the Bureau of Motor Vehicles before proceeding into traffic, but he didn't, and from the other side, The Dude in the Green Torrino barrelled through the barely lit red light suggesting he stop, and instead he broadsided Mr. #1 in line.
Before my dad could finish saying, "Bear, stay in the car..." I was out of the passenger seat and around the front of his car headed to the smash up. I got to Mr. #1 first and his barrelled chest was locked tight and secure in a seatbelt, but his head was laying back on the headrest and his mouth wide open, his eye glazed over and barely open. I knew he was close to dead, and I patted his still warm shoulder. Next, I ran over to the other car and Dude, probably in his 30's was unbelted and smashed up against his steering wheel, his right arm stuck against the steering column and mangled, and his face bloodied, his glasses kind of driven into the bridge of his nose. I looked down and saw he was struggling with something in his shaking left hand and saw that he was trying to put a plastic baggie of pot in his sock. I knelt down and asked him if he was o.k. then he nodded, he was quivering and I think going into shock, so I gently took the bag from him and put it down my shirt.
My dad came over to me and asked me how Dude was and I said he was going to need the squad and he looked at me with fatherly concern about what I had just witnessed, he put his hands on my shoulders, swallowed and said, "The other man... I think is dead."
("....And now, he's not only merely dead, he's really most sincerely dead....")
I said, "Yeah, I know."
He said, "Ok, get back in the car. I'll wait out here until the police come."
Later after we got home, we relayed the story to my mom and she stared at me and then back at my dad in disbelief and worry, and he gave me a sympathetic look and they exchanged a knowing glance, and he said to me with a sigh, "You can cry now."
I was confused. Because it hadn't occurred to me to cry even once. I was exhilerated. I wanted to talk about it and rehash the drama, talk about scenarios of how #1 maybe could have avoided his fate, I wanted to tell them about Dude and all his blood, I wanted to wonder about what it would have been like to treat them as an emergency worker if I had been one because I think I could have given #1 a fighting chance had I known CPR, I really wanted to be commended for my fast action and admired for my presence of mind and bravery. The last thing I wanted was to be treated like a little girl...
But instead, I offered him a few whimpers to appease his manly need and hugged both my parents, and then wandered up to my bathroom and took the plastic baggie out of my bra and flushed the contents down the toilet.
*In honor of Black History Month: http://education.dot.gov/aboutmorgan.html
posted by SPOA | 12:52 PM
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