Marc
I wanted to go somewhere, to some cool place to rest without thinking, but there was still too much to be done; plans had to be made. -- by Ralph Ellison in Invisible Man
Norfolk, Virginia
One. I am a tipped-over semi-truck magnet, apparently. Yesterday, while driving down I-95 just south of the Virginia/North Carolina border I was two cars away from a massive accident involving one tipped over semi and two unbelievably smashed-in SUVs. I must've missed the actual action by about a minute, but luckily (and I use that word with some reservation) we were just within the area of a weigh station, and officers were on the scene just as I was pulling up. We didn't move for about forty-five minutes, and I was shocked and disgusted to see people in the cars behind me getting out of their cars to walk up to the accident site to gawk and stare as the EMTs and other assorted emergency personnel did their jobs. One guy was out of his car just standing alongside the site for over one half hour. I stayed put the entire time.
Two. While driving west on US-58 today, I was about eight cars behind a tipped over semi. And I'm not saying slightly tipped over for these trucks. I'm talking cabs-cracked-and-lying-in-the-ditches, roof-of-the-trailer-split-open-from-the-weight-of-its-contents-spilling-into-the-road, wheels-in-the-air-the-door-wide-open-nearly-ten-feet-into-the-air type tipped over. There were no surrounding vehicles that I could see as I quickly and quietly drove past, after waiting for another 25 minutes. Thankfully there were no people out of their cars gawking at this one, though the guy behind me was walking from car to car apparently asking for directions to somewhere, though he didn't ask me. I felt unwanted.
Three. Another close-call, though one that would not have actually stopped my car, nearly happened as I was standing in the parking lot of my hotel this evening. An SUV was driving south towards a stoplight as a pick-up truck turned the wrong way down a one-way street. I looked up and saw the whole thing as I heard screeching tires followed by two voices yelling both "What the fuck!" and "Holy shit, man!" The older man in the pick-up truck luckily stomped on his brakes in time, narrowly avoiding a head-on collision, but then he proceeded to sit face-to-face with his almost-collisionally-challenged brethren for almost a minute, staring dumbfoundedly. I was, quite happily, on two feet watching the whole thing unfold.
Four. Moral of the story is this -- driving is hard. Forget art, Tim Kasher. Get behind the wheel for a living, and tell me that you won't think about your own death from time to time. I could not believe the things I saw at the accident site -- children running in a panic towards an approaching squad car, their parent or guardian figure nowhere to be found; an overweight trucker running to and from his truck repeatedly with what appeared to be a sheet of paper with instructions from the state trooper, who apparently released some power to the truck driver to tell others to hurry up and help out; the inner-shock of wondering whether I should be out of my car and at the site to see if anyone needed help, but realizing that, upon seeing the state trooper take control and two more squad cars fastly approaching, I would be a nuisance, but slowly noticing that more and more of my fellow travellers were getting out of their cars, and finding myself staring at them with disgust, not too thinly veiled as they walked past my car, obviously staring me in the face; emergency vehicle after emergency vehicle approach, do some part of the job and then make room for more than three ambulances to come in, work on someone, only to speed off a short time later, sirens blaring. I'm lucky to be alive, so to speak. I'm no fan of a higher power, whatever it may be. I rely solely on my defense driving skills, thank you Mr. Mulligan, and my keen senses. Check the mirrors, drive at least four moves ahead of everyone else, and be happy to be at home or in the hotel room at night, willing and waiting to live another day.
Up Next: The "Thud-thud" of the wall as my neighbors go "boom-boom" in the other room; a shower; and, Invisible Man by Ralph Ellison.
Tomorrow: Places in Virginia. Video games with Luke, the man who puked at Scoot's wedding.
I wanted to go somewhere, to some cool place to rest without thinking, but there was still too much to be done; plans had to be made. -- by Ralph Ellison in Invisible Man
Norfolk, Virginia
One. I am a tipped-over semi-truck magnet, apparently. Yesterday, while driving down I-95 just south of the Virginia/North Carolina border I was two cars away from a massive accident involving one tipped over semi and two unbelievably smashed-in SUVs. I must've missed the actual action by about a minute, but luckily (and I use that word with some reservation) we were just within the area of a weigh station, and officers were on the scene just as I was pulling up. We didn't move for about forty-five minutes, and I was shocked and disgusted to see people in the cars behind me getting out of their cars to walk up to the accident site to gawk and stare as the EMTs and other assorted emergency personnel did their jobs. One guy was out of his car just standing alongside the site for over one half hour. I stayed put the entire time.
Two. While driving west on US-58 today, I was about eight cars behind a tipped over semi. And I'm not saying slightly tipped over for these trucks. I'm talking cabs-cracked-and-lying-in-the-ditches, roof-of-the-trailer-split-open-from-the-weight-of-its-contents-spilling-into-the-road, wheels-in-the-air-the-door-wide-open-nearly-ten-feet-into-the-air type tipped over. There were no surrounding vehicles that I could see as I quickly and quietly drove past, after waiting for another 25 minutes. Thankfully there were no people out of their cars gawking at this one, though the guy behind me was walking from car to car apparently asking for directions to somewhere, though he didn't ask me. I felt unwanted.
Three. Another close-call, though one that would not have actually stopped my car, nearly happened as I was standing in the parking lot of my hotel this evening. An SUV was driving south towards a stoplight as a pick-up truck turned the wrong way down a one-way street. I looked up and saw the whole thing as I heard screeching tires followed by two voices yelling both "What the fuck!" and "Holy shit, man!" The older man in the pick-up truck luckily stomped on his brakes in time, narrowly avoiding a head-on collision, but then he proceeded to sit face-to-face with his almost-collisionally-challenged brethren for almost a minute, staring dumbfoundedly. I was, quite happily, on two feet watching the whole thing unfold.
Four. Moral of the story is this -- driving is hard. Forget art, Tim Kasher. Get behind the wheel for a living, and tell me that you won't think about your own death from time to time. I could not believe the things I saw at the accident site -- children running in a panic towards an approaching squad car, their parent or guardian figure nowhere to be found; an overweight trucker running to and from his truck repeatedly with what appeared to be a sheet of paper with instructions from the state trooper, who apparently released some power to the truck driver to tell others to hurry up and help out; the inner-shock of wondering whether I should be out of my car and at the site to see if anyone needed help, but realizing that, upon seeing the state trooper take control and two more squad cars fastly approaching, I would be a nuisance, but slowly noticing that more and more of my fellow travellers were getting out of their cars, and finding myself staring at them with disgust, not too thinly veiled as they walked past my car, obviously staring me in the face; emergency vehicle after emergency vehicle approach, do some part of the job and then make room for more than three ambulances to come in, work on someone, only to speed off a short time later, sirens blaring. I'm lucky to be alive, so to speak. I'm no fan of a higher power, whatever it may be. I rely solely on my defense driving skills, thank you Mr. Mulligan, and my keen senses. Check the mirrors, drive at least four moves ahead of everyone else, and be happy to be at home or in the hotel room at night, willing and waiting to live another day.
Up Next: The "Thud-thud" of the wall as my neighbors go "boom-boom" in the other room; a shower; and, Invisible Man by Ralph Ellison.
Tomorrow: Places in Virginia. Video games with Luke, the man who puked at Scoot's wedding.
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