I stood there quietly, humbled, in front of him. Eyes closed, head down, ashamed of myself, terrorized nightly about what had transpired. Snapshots in my brain of a tiny curious hand curled tightly around menacing black steel. Images of her smile, now with a hint of pearly white baby teeth. Sounds of her sweet giggles. Such contrasts, those images that wake me drenched in a cold sweat.
"Well," He said to me, "it's a place of lost innocence, of broken dreams. No matter what the situation is, it boils down to somebody's world being shattered."
I looked down at the markers, the ribbons and flowers, the stuffed animals and toys that decorated the rows of tiny rows of flat granite plaques nestled neatly in the well manicured lawn.
After he said that, I felt like I could relax a little. Yes, my dreams of safety and security were crushed but my baby was alive and I learned a valuable lesson. The innocence lost was mine, not hers, and I didn't have much left anyway.
What are dreams anyway? They're the plates you can afford to hurl against the wall as long as the important things escape unscathed.
8.29.2006
8.27.2006
Truly Madly Deeply
I'll be your dream
I'll be your wish
I'll be your fantasy
Thank you Savage Garden... no one could have said it any better. That's just what I was thinking.
I'll be your wish
I'll be your fantasy
Thank you Savage Garden... no one could have said it any better. That's just what I was thinking.
8.22.2006
Harmful Events
It started with a piece of metal. Small, twisted, heavy... a piece of discarded road debris. The flotsam of the highways. Inocuous, deceptively innocent and often overlooked miscelani. In the heat and traffic of the late afternoon the first harmful event occurred. The casualty? One radiator. One missed day of work. One little silver car. The fate of the metal? A little more twisted, bounced a little farther down the highway, became airborne, sailed through the air toward the second most harmful event. The casualty? Physically... one more car, 75 feet of fencing, a lot of sweat, some time. In reality and in more human terms? A life as we know it.
Things get hazy at this point. A lot of suppositions, drawn conclusions and educated guesses. At what point did the twisted hunk of metal crash through the windshield? At what point did it impact the driver's face? How did he manage to travel through the median that many hundreds of yards without going into oncoming traffic? Why didn't he brake before vaulting over that embankment to the roadway 25 feet below? Did the car roll or just slam unimpeeded into the asphault? Does any of it really matter?
I stood at the top of the embankment watching a purple rope stretch to the breaking point as it was tied quickly to a bumper and used to rapel down to the car. I knew I'd never make it down that way. I waited. The sun was hot on my bare arms and sweat was already started to bead up. It was quiet despite the roar of the passing traffic and the whine of the engine still left running. The quiet is a mental thing. A way to stop thinking about the horrific Mr. Toadesque wild ride this must have been.
The blaring of sirens and foghorns breaks the revere as a sleek yellow firetruck screams toward the scene, quickly followed by a more traditional red firetruck. Ketchup and mustard strike me and my stomach growls. How can I be hungry while I'm watching fire and ems personel extricate this person and work him. Five minutes of watching turn into ten, turn into twenty as a yellow helicopter approaches hurridly from the east, sets down on the closed roadway. Twenty minutes turn into thirty as the blades stop spinning and the number of people grows around the victim in the middle of the closed roadway. They work him for forty minutes solid. Establish airway and control bleeding. He is combative. As he fights the pool of blood underneath him grows and spreads. Firemen in turn out gear move away from him to let helicopter crew get closer. The pool of blood spreads in an oval now... away from the victim. He fights as they try to stabalize his neck. More blood spreads as a hand moves away from his neck and relieves pressure on his severed corrated artery. Spatter and spray are everywhere. The oval pool of darkening, thicking blood is massive, larger than a manhole cover. It is ominious, sickening and it's beginning to smell of copper and rotten fruit.
The helicopter takes off finally... some forty minutes later with patient on board. I move back to the car to get some water and cool myself. The stereo is still on. The song? Another one bites the dust. And I think to myself of a hundred sick jokes. I keep it to myself. For now. It's the nature of the work. It sickens me to think that I no longer have the capicity to care. Maybe it's just that there's so much to care about that I have a hard time picking what to focus my short attention span on.
Later, after I've made my way down to the scene, I take in my surroundings. I'm standing in the middle of a two lane road, deserted because it's closed on both ends not far from here. The detrius of human existance is everywhere. Empty cigarette packs, crushed plastic soda bottles, a pair of abandoned sunglasses, papers, a starbucks bottle with the label faded into oblivion. I know what it is based on the familiar shape and my frequent consumption of tasty bottled frappucinos. Actually I despise the bottled ones, think they have a nasty aftertaste, but I would mainline caffine if I could.. and if you drink them quickly they're not so bad. That's how far I have sunk in my caffine addiction. But I digress. For once this is not really about me.
These items existed before this latest harmful event. I look across the road to the car I've so far avoided staring at. It's some random metalic color, not silver. Not quite sure what. I think it was a four door. Not anymore. It's scrap now. The back window is gone. The windshield is a mass of greenish safety glass smashed into a million little pieces. It is liberally sprayed with quickly darkening and drying blood. The doors are twisted, the axles bent and broken. The back bumper is forelornly gazing upon us from 25 feet away. The roof is caved in on one side, lending some creedence to the idea that it may have indeed rolled. The trunk is open and smashed and it's contents are spilled across the roadway . It looks like what my living room looks like on any given day after P is done emptying her toy box all over the floor. The medics have bundled all of their spent supplies into a bag and tossed it casually into the back seat. Like anyone really wants to see that later on. An ID is extracted from the car. It took has blood all over it and we have no real concrete idea if that is the driver. No one could get a good look at what was left of his face. We think it's him.
On the ground before me are broken golf clubs, gym clothes half out of their bag, the odd athletic shoe, paperwork, a green towel, cds which have escaped their holder and a backpack. The sun is glinting off the backs of the cds which are all I can see. I wonder about the kind of music he listens to but I cannot turn them over. I spot one that is face up in the mud. It is handmade, perhaps by the vicim. Someone with masculine handwriting anyway. Dashboard Confessional. The irony doesn't escape me, but it fails to amuse me.
The firemen are preparing to leave, gathering equipment and turning on the water supply from their truck to scub away the dirt and the blood that coats them despite wearing gloves. There is literally blood everywhere. They are nice enough to wash down the oval pool of blood in the middle of the closed roadway that we all know is still there. We've all been deftly avoiding it like the plague. The water washes away most of the evidence. Not all. We all still know it was there and avoid it like the plague. Like someone elses's blood is a bad omen or something. It's like not stepping on cracks because you are superstitious. Pssst... don't step where the blood used to be... it's bad karma dude.
The witnesses come and go with the fire people. We are left alone, just the five of us, to measure and diagram and work the scene. 25 feet from the top of the highway to the bottom of the street below. Tape measures survive the fall better than the car did. From fog line to right of way, telephone pole to canal, we plot out the scene, measure everything and fill two pages with numbers I hope will be helpful later. I am both amazed and impressed with the precision and the effort being put into the task at hand. We teach them well and let them lead the way. Their spirit of teamwork is inspiring.
I've been watching the sky off to the north for a while. Dark clouds have formed and the dust is beginning to roll in. We need to finish quickly before it hits. And in an instant the wall of dust is upon us. And as the skys darken we all reach for of all things sunglasses - anything - in an effort to protect our eyes from the swirling dirt particles. Our scene is being scattered and removed from us as is the top layer of our skin. I try to hold a clipboard up in front of my face to keep the dust at bay. My lips are chapped. My skin is pink and raw. My clothes are filthy and my hair has escaped the pony tail I put it up in. The wind is so fierce it's about to knock us over. There is no cover, no place to escape this torture. I can still taste the dirt in my mouth hours later. And as the dust slowly passes and we hurridly finish up, the rain comes.
The rain smells clean as it hits the desert floor. It is cleansing and I raise my head toward the sky, jut my chin out and let the drops fall upon my face. They are cool and I am hot. They are fresh and I am jaded. They were unexpected and I've become predictibly numb. They are a welcome change for with them they bring thunder and lightening which distract me from my wonder about our victim. I feel the calm come over me and I ask for what seems most pressing. Be with this young man and do what's best for him. A rumble of thunder and a jaged light slicing though the dark sky. They hear. They are there.
And then we are gone. We get back in the car as the rain begins to sheet and visibility falls to zero. All evidence has been removed quietly and efficiently as though nothing ever happened. Three orange barricades neatly placed in the median next to the downed fence are the only hint that anything was ever amiss.
Shows over folks, nothing more to see here.
Things get hazy at this point. A lot of suppositions, drawn conclusions and educated guesses. At what point did the twisted hunk of metal crash through the windshield? At what point did it impact the driver's face? How did he manage to travel through the median that many hundreds of yards without going into oncoming traffic? Why didn't he brake before vaulting over that embankment to the roadway 25 feet below? Did the car roll or just slam unimpeeded into the asphault? Does any of it really matter?
I stood at the top of the embankment watching a purple rope stretch to the breaking point as it was tied quickly to a bumper and used to rapel down to the car. I knew I'd never make it down that way. I waited. The sun was hot on my bare arms and sweat was already started to bead up. It was quiet despite the roar of the passing traffic and the whine of the engine still left running. The quiet is a mental thing. A way to stop thinking about the horrific Mr. Toadesque wild ride this must have been.
The blaring of sirens and foghorns breaks the revere as a sleek yellow firetruck screams toward the scene, quickly followed by a more traditional red firetruck. Ketchup and mustard strike me and my stomach growls. How can I be hungry while I'm watching fire and ems personel extricate this person and work him. Five minutes of watching turn into ten, turn into twenty as a yellow helicopter approaches hurridly from the east, sets down on the closed roadway. Twenty minutes turn into thirty as the blades stop spinning and the number of people grows around the victim in the middle of the closed roadway. They work him for forty minutes solid. Establish airway and control bleeding. He is combative. As he fights the pool of blood underneath him grows and spreads. Firemen in turn out gear move away from him to let helicopter crew get closer. The pool of blood spreads in an oval now... away from the victim. He fights as they try to stabalize his neck. More blood spreads as a hand moves away from his neck and relieves pressure on his severed corrated artery. Spatter and spray are everywhere. The oval pool of darkening, thicking blood is massive, larger than a manhole cover. It is ominious, sickening and it's beginning to smell of copper and rotten fruit.
The helicopter takes off finally... some forty minutes later with patient on board. I move back to the car to get some water and cool myself. The stereo is still on. The song? Another one bites the dust. And I think to myself of a hundred sick jokes. I keep it to myself. For now. It's the nature of the work. It sickens me to think that I no longer have the capicity to care. Maybe it's just that there's so much to care about that I have a hard time picking what to focus my short attention span on.
Later, after I've made my way down to the scene, I take in my surroundings. I'm standing in the middle of a two lane road, deserted because it's closed on both ends not far from here. The detrius of human existance is everywhere. Empty cigarette packs, crushed plastic soda bottles, a pair of abandoned sunglasses, papers, a starbucks bottle with the label faded into oblivion. I know what it is based on the familiar shape and my frequent consumption of tasty bottled frappucinos. Actually I despise the bottled ones, think they have a nasty aftertaste, but I would mainline caffine if I could.. and if you drink them quickly they're not so bad. That's how far I have sunk in my caffine addiction. But I digress. For once this is not really about me.
These items existed before this latest harmful event. I look across the road to the car I've so far avoided staring at. It's some random metalic color, not silver. Not quite sure what. I think it was a four door. Not anymore. It's scrap now. The back window is gone. The windshield is a mass of greenish safety glass smashed into a million little pieces. It is liberally sprayed with quickly darkening and drying blood. The doors are twisted, the axles bent and broken. The back bumper is forelornly gazing upon us from 25 feet away. The roof is caved in on one side, lending some creedence to the idea that it may have indeed rolled. The trunk is open and smashed and it's contents are spilled across the roadway . It looks like what my living room looks like on any given day after P is done emptying her toy box all over the floor. The medics have bundled all of their spent supplies into a bag and tossed it casually into the back seat. Like anyone really wants to see that later on. An ID is extracted from the car. It took has blood all over it and we have no real concrete idea if that is the driver. No one could get a good look at what was left of his face. We think it's him.
On the ground before me are broken golf clubs, gym clothes half out of their bag, the odd athletic shoe, paperwork, a green towel, cds which have escaped their holder and a backpack. The sun is glinting off the backs of the cds which are all I can see. I wonder about the kind of music he listens to but I cannot turn them over. I spot one that is face up in the mud. It is handmade, perhaps by the vicim. Someone with masculine handwriting anyway. Dashboard Confessional. The irony doesn't escape me, but it fails to amuse me.
The firemen are preparing to leave, gathering equipment and turning on the water supply from their truck to scub away the dirt and the blood that coats them despite wearing gloves. There is literally blood everywhere. They are nice enough to wash down the oval pool of blood in the middle of the closed roadway that we all know is still there. We've all been deftly avoiding it like the plague. The water washes away most of the evidence. Not all. We all still know it was there and avoid it like the plague. Like someone elses's blood is a bad omen or something. It's like not stepping on cracks because you are superstitious. Pssst... don't step where the blood used to be... it's bad karma dude.
The witnesses come and go with the fire people. We are left alone, just the five of us, to measure and diagram and work the scene. 25 feet from the top of the highway to the bottom of the street below. Tape measures survive the fall better than the car did. From fog line to right of way, telephone pole to canal, we plot out the scene, measure everything and fill two pages with numbers I hope will be helpful later. I am both amazed and impressed with the precision and the effort being put into the task at hand. We teach them well and let them lead the way. Their spirit of teamwork is inspiring.
I've been watching the sky off to the north for a while. Dark clouds have formed and the dust is beginning to roll in. We need to finish quickly before it hits. And in an instant the wall of dust is upon us. And as the skys darken we all reach for of all things sunglasses - anything - in an effort to protect our eyes from the swirling dirt particles. Our scene is being scattered and removed from us as is the top layer of our skin. I try to hold a clipboard up in front of my face to keep the dust at bay. My lips are chapped. My skin is pink and raw. My clothes are filthy and my hair has escaped the pony tail I put it up in. The wind is so fierce it's about to knock us over. There is no cover, no place to escape this torture. I can still taste the dirt in my mouth hours later. And as the dust slowly passes and we hurridly finish up, the rain comes.
The rain smells clean as it hits the desert floor. It is cleansing and I raise my head toward the sky, jut my chin out and let the drops fall upon my face. They are cool and I am hot. They are fresh and I am jaded. They were unexpected and I've become predictibly numb. They are a welcome change for with them they bring thunder and lightening which distract me from my wonder about our victim. I feel the calm come over me and I ask for what seems most pressing. Be with this young man and do what's best for him. A rumble of thunder and a jaged light slicing though the dark sky. They hear. They are there.
And then we are gone. We get back in the car as the rain begins to sheet and visibility falls to zero. All evidence has been removed quietly and efficiently as though nothing ever happened. Three orange barricades neatly placed in the median next to the downed fence are the only hint that anything was ever amiss.
Shows over folks, nothing more to see here.
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