in arguably dead >> by ron heacock >> *spark-online8.0

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in arguably dead

by ron heacock

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.

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.