Dash
I‘ve been trying to write this post for two days.
On Saturday, we went to the Sinfonietta through the magic of free tickets.
Francine and I were enjoying a lazy Saturday afternoon, and the day sort of got away from us. We completely lost track of the time until Mel called us to ask where we were.
It was 7:00, time to pick up the tickets, and were were still lounging around! Fortunately, we only live up the hill from the Rialto, so we were able to get there in short order.
We parked in the lot down the block and across the street. I sent Francine on ahead to meet up with Mel and James and the tickets while I mucked with the new auto-pay machine.
Back in the day, you entered the number of the space you were parked in and threw in some bills and you were good to go. The new system involves a printed ticket to put on the dashboard. I took the ticket and hesitated – they were waiting for me and I was running late. What were the odds that the car would get cited?
Was the chance worth the thirty seconds I’d lose? I decided not. I ran to the car, slapped the ticket on the dash, and ran back to the intersection to cross Ninth and Market Streets. There were knots of pedestrians crossing Market on both sides of Ninth, heading for the Rialto. There were even four of Tacoma’s bicycle cops standing around, vaguely looking like they were supposed to be crossing guards.
As I started to cross Market, I saw a white pickup truck racing up Ninth, towards me. Without signaling or slowing, it turned left onto Market, across Ninth from me.
Pedestrians scattered and flew through the air like pins in a bowling lane. At least one of them thumped onto the hood of the pickup as it sped through.
The cops ran forward like they’d rehearsed it: three to injured pedestrians, one to the middle of the street to peer after the pickup. I assume he was getting the license number.
People were screaming.
I ran to the nearest group. A cop was already there, administering first aid.
The man had a neatly trimmed grey beard and short, white hair. He was twisted under and over a young blonde woman. His head was surrounded by a growing puddle of blood, a shocking scarlet against the grey asphalt and his brown topcoat. His hat – a brown Pendleton with what looked like a pheasant feather, was crushed nearby.
He was still wearing his glasses.
He lifted his head, and he kept asking, “Where’s my wife? Is my wife all right?” The officer asked him questions as he applied pressure to the injury, but he ignored them. “Is my wife all right?”
The younger woman tangled around him told the officer she was fine, and she tried to talk to the older man. He ignored her. Clearly not the wife.
I looked about twenty feet up the street, where an older woman lay, unmoving, with an officer kneeling beside her.
A hysterical woman, screaming, across the street was being comforted by another, younger woman.
Somebody had already called 911. One of the officers was also on his radio.
Standing there in the middle of Market Street, I felt utterly helpless, unable to help.
Perhaps one of the Sinfonietta patrons was a doctor? I ran for the Rialto.
Somebody beat me to it. An EMT and a nurse were identifying themselves in the ticket line to another bystander. They were on their way before I had even caught my breath.
So I went to the Sinfonietta and told Francine and Mel and James about the incident.
And right then I realized for the first time that had I not run back to put the ticket on the dashboard, I would have been in that intersection when the pickup truck had run through it.
Something inside me shifted at that moment, and I’ve not quite come to grips with it. It’s not survivor’s guilt – nobody died and I certainly don’t feel guilty.
But every time I look at someone, there’s this profound feeling of “you could die in an instant – hell, you’re probably already dead – and everything you are and were will be gone”. I’m sure there’s a single word for that in some language. Probably German.
It’s hard to take anyone so terribly seriously, and yet there’s also this awesome sense of individual importance in the sense that this person is a unique and fragile treasure in the world. And in these islands of individuality, I feel utterly unconnected and adrift.
Does that make any sense?
I passed the site today. It was raining hard, and the black stains on the street were melting at the edges and joining the muddy rivulets running down the hill to the sea.
I’ve been trying to write this post for two days. I’m not convinced I’ve succeeded.