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The noise
wasn't nearly as bad as the subway derailment I lived through
in Brooklyn; but there is no question anyway, I'm dead. You might
think death is scary or painful or, well, loud like I thought
it was going to be, but it isn't any of those things. You are
probably wondering how I died, probably wondering how I know I'm,
you know; dead.
I heard a story
once that explains how I know. It seems there was a missionary visiting
some African tribe. Or maybe it was South American, I can't remember.
Well, the missionary observed a native mother. Children out there
were carried around by their moms most all the time. Every so often,
with no verbal clues -- no outside indications, this tribes-woman
holds her little boy, who has no diaper on mind you -- holds him
out at arm’s length over a bush. The little wiener relieves his
bladder just like that.
After a day
of following the tribes-women around the missionary can't keep her
mouth shut. She asks, "How do you know when your baby has to pee"?
The native mom looks at her, surprised for a second, and bursts
out laughing. Perfect teeth flashing, her eyes squeezed shut. She
doubles over and can't breathe. Other curious women come over to
see what's what. Finally after the mom catches her breath and wipes
her eyes she says, "How do you know when you have to pee?"
That's kind
of how it is here. I just know. I'm dead and that's that.
How I got here
is tale of another kind. I drive, er um, drove a cab in Manhattan.
I was rushing this fare to Idlewhile, that's Kennedy International
to all of you kids, up the B-Q-E when traffic, for no apparent reason
came to a complete standstill. This happens with nauseating regularity
on most of the chuck-hole-riddled, major arteries in the Rotten
Apple. We are sitting there with our thumbs up our butts. Horns
are blaring temperature gauges begin creeping up. After a moment
I spot the cause of our detainment. About a hundred feet up on the
opposite side of the median guard-rail there is a 3 car pile-up.
No one seems
to be hurt -- yet. The drivers of all three cars are standing in
the middle of the westbound lane screaming at one another. Face
to face. One guy looks like a boil about ready to pop. His face
appears so constricted by his once white-collar that the veins and
arteries are backing up blood into his sweaty, sausage-face. The
other, smaller guy has on an absurd checkered jacket. The sleeves
are way too short and his bare forearms are sticking out of the
cuffs waving in the air like antennae stretched out by his ears.
There is a smokeless cigarette butt pinched up in the crook between
the index and middle fingers of his right hand.
The 3rd driver
is a short, elderly, white-haired woman. She is screaming so loud
that I can hear her shrill obscenities even with my windows closed,
above the horns. She has a gray poodle squished up under her right
arm and she's poking the black leather-gloved index finger of her
left hand in the boil-man's face. She is so out of control spittle
hangs from her bony chin; something about how they were cock-sucker
sons of whores. The dog barks nonstop. Every so often she gives
it a squeeze like some clogged up, mangy bagpipe and yells, "Shut-the-fuck-up,
Trixie!" This causes the mutt to gag and wheeze for a beat before
it starts up again.
Usually I wait
it out and watch the show -- it's not my dime, ya' know? But today
my fare is really itchy and he's got cash. He shoves a crisp fin
under the Plexiglas wall separating us and tells me to go around.
I saw the bill and saw my chance -- I could get around the rubberneckers,
we were only a few cars apart. I gas it into the shoulder, plow
through some garbage, my right wheel runs up on the cement curb.
I only just kissed the iron fence and the concrete wall off the
shoulder. I wouldn't even have to make out a report on that little
scratch. Up 4 or 5 cars and back on to a clear road.
It is a strange
thing to see an eighteen-wheeler fly. All the noise and heat and
dirt around me just seemed to suck away somewhere. Everything slid
into slow motion. All I could see was the graceful arc in midair,
of the cab and trailer, all of its wheels still turning. I could
read the side of the trailer: “GOD - Guaranteed Overnight Delivery,”
lettered in fire engine red. The mouths of the 3 drivers gaped open,
their necks twisted, heads following the spectacle of a flying semi.
Even the yapping dog watched. I opened my mouth to speak to my fare.
I was going to say, "Hey, would you look at that." But I never got
the chance.
The lumbering
albatross of a truck veered toward us and fell right into my lap.
My windshield imploded and the grillwork of the Peterbilt rushed
in to greet me. Funny thing though. When that truck hit the hood
of my cab time resumed normal speed. Glass sprayed like a garden
hose. My fare screamed like he was being burned alive. Maybe he
was.
All I could
do was watch -- it was really very pleasant. I felt no pain; I was
awake and present with my eyes open and at the same time strangely
detached - like watching a movie. The carnage just unfolded around
me. Each event was separate and clear although occurring simultaneously.
I saw colors and lights. I smelled the diesel fuel and the hot macadam.
I even smelled the vinyl of my cab seats. I heard the metal tortured
and tear. It sounded like a metal shack was being blown apart around
my head. A radio played American Pie in the distance.
The last thing
I saw was this little girl. She was standing on the patio of a building
adjacent to the roadway eating an ice-cream cone that looked too
big for her. She was wearing a white summer jumper with big blue
and green flowers printed on it. Her hair was braided in 2 blond
pigtails. I became concerned that the chocolate would stain her
dress.
Then it was
calm and I was here.
Copyright ©
2000 Ron Heacock All Rights Reserved
For over twenty
years, Ron Heacock has painted song, poem and story pictures so
stark, they can make you jump. His brainchild, Sweating Angel, is
a dedicated to passionate art, literature, poetry and music, slated
to go online June, 2000.
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