A car wreck

December 22, 2008

Something bitter climbed into me when I woke up, I'm not sure why. I walk slowly, pushing one foot in front of the next. The wind blows at me with an air of anxiety, bustling with yellow, brown, and golden leaves. The flimsy knit bill on my cap folds and flops in the wind. I walk by a woman in a black overcoat with blue stockings and black boots high on her calves. She is walking a dog tied tight in a red harness that's sniffing at the ground and looking mean and defiant. The dog leaps at my leg as I shuffle past, and I move out of its way in the same way I would tuck my shoulder in to walk by someone on the sidewalk. It was underwhelmed; it goes back to sniffing defiantly at the ground.

I ask myself the same questions over and over sometimes as I walk to work in the morning, or walk anywhere for that matter.

"What are you doing with your life?" I think.

I put one foot in front of the other, and I tell myself that it's a stupid question. I ask it again though.

"What are you doing with your life?"

The questions sync with my footsteps, vague introspection at a steady rhythm.

The sidewalk is a network of cracks and depressions. I look down at my feet, at the puddles, at the lines of dried mud left by bicycle tires. I'm going to work to save money so that I can move somewhere. That's what I'm doing.

"You've moved over and over again. Why do you want to move?"

I ignore the question. One foot in front of the next.

Crossing the street, I intersect another pedestrians path. He's black with a red sweatshirt beneath a brown tweed jacket. I look briefly at his smooth face, broad featured and angular.

I piercing screech erupts to my right, something rubber and steel and glass. My head flashes over my shoulder instinctively. A gray sedan has just slammed into a white hatchback looking toyota. Both cars are spinning away from each other and producing horrible grinds and screeches as they drag their hulls across the pavement. The front left wheel of the sedan is air-borne, and the car itself is sliding with an awful crushed ice sound towards the sidewalk. The toyota spins until it slams horizontally into a stoplight, then leans up hard on two wheels before collapsing back down on all four. The sedan, both its front wheels off their axle now, slides headlong into the curb, bucking its tail up a foot off the ground when it comes to an abrupt cement assisted stop. Its rear end falls back down onto the street. The front of the sedan looks like a busted lip, curled back, shining, and leaking obscure liquids all over the place. I hear some shouts.

My silver cellphone is next to my ear, my thumb stabs out 9-1-1 blindly.

"9-1-1 Emergency. Please do not hang up. Someone will be on the line as soon as possible." Then again, in Spanish.

I'm walking towards the broken cars. The guy I had just walked by is running over, his red sweatshirt hood flaring up around his collar as he runs. Some construction workers from a nearby construction site are gathering around. It's like a scene from a movie, people coming out of the wood work to flock in close to these two smashed cars. Green fluid runs down the gutter that's formed by the curb rising up from the road. There is something steam-like shooting out of the engine block in knife shaped bursts. The wreck is really bad. Both cars are crumpled and beaten, their entire front ends folded in like old beer cans. The construction workers gather around the cars one at a time, trying the doors. They won't open.

"Please do not hang up. Someone will be on the line as soon as possible." In English again.

I walk over to the gray sedan, my cellphone still pressed to my ear. The black guy with his tweed jacket and his red hoody has jogged over to the other car, and is leaned in close to the drivers window. I look into the sedan at the woman driver. She looks scared, real scared. I inspect her closely from her head down to her waist - which is as far as I can see from here. I'm still standing some ten feet from the front of her car. She's not bleeding, and nothing looks awkward or alarming about her posture. Her car doesn't even have front wheels anymore; I've never seen that happen.

"9-1-1what is your emergency?" It's a woman's voice.

"There's been a car wreck on 19th and Clarkson."

"A car wreck?"

"Yes, a car wreck. Both of the cars are in pretty bad shape. The wheels came off of one."

"Are you hurt?"

"No. I wasn't in the wreck, I just saw it."

"Oh, OK. 19th and Clarkson?"

"Yes. I don't think anyone is hurt."

The guy with the red sweatshirt and tweed jacket comes running back from the other car. He tells me that the driver is a man, he says that he thinks he's fine, but that it looks like his nose might be broken. I tell the 911 operator this.

A homeless man that a moment ago was curled up in a little patch of grass near the intersection has stirred, and he's walking in our direction in a haze. Each of his steps are intentional. He's fighting the booze in his blood just to walk in a straight line. He barters with a construction worker, using stiff hand motions alone, and somehow gets a hold of the workers bright orange vest. He doesn't succeed in getting his orange hardhat. The homeless guy walks out into the intersection, and begins to direct traffic, poorly. I watch him, a little distracted.

"We're sending an emergency vehicle," says the woman's voice, "are there any fires or any gas leaks?"

"No." I'm talking to her but staring at the wino directing cars around the wreck haphazardly with jerky hand motions.

"No, no fires or gas leaks that I can see. I think it's all just anti-freeze leaking out." The man in the tweed jacket is still standing close to me, and he nods his agreement with the anti-freeze statement. I stop watching the wino, and look back at the woman in the sedan. She's on a phone now, and staring into my eyes. Her eyes are big and wet and twitchy, she's very scared.

The woman on the phone is still talking.

"Sir, are you going to be there for the next couple of minutes? What is your name?"

"I won't be here. I'm going to work, and I won't be here."

"Oh. Well can we call you on this number if we need any more details?"

I hear a siren, and see an ambulance approaching.

"No. No, I'm going to work." I hang up the phone.

I'm still staring at the woman in the sedan, and she is still staring at me. She's wearing a white blouse and a tight suit-jacket. She has long, brown hair. She's talking into her phone, and she's looking very frightened.

I put my cellphone into my pocket and turn around, heading for the sidewalk. When I get to it, I look down at its cracks and holes. They're familiar. After a minute or two, I can't hear the sirens anymore.

"What are you doing with your life?" I think.

I put one foot in front of the other, and I tell myself that it's a stupid question. Then, I ask it again.

Tags for this piece: story nonfiction denver city introspection carwreck walk

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