Someone I Didn’t Kill

Spring 1997

I still remember how beautiful the day was when I considered it, out on the streets surrounding the university, a little breeze blowing in the trees, no hint of the inferno to come. It probably *could* have been a day to consider life, considering I found out the student union sold Ben and Jerry’s. The memory that doesn’t last is what precipitated the initial slide, yeah, ten years ago, it almost ended my life and now I can’t retain it. Maybe it was a low grade, or my crusty Editing prof crossing some invisible line between “crusty coot” and just plain bastard. And of course, I didn’t say anything. I never did. Maybe it was six months of watching four other women talk and argue with their mouths full before I’d come fully conscious, and not being able to see more than more of the same, stretching on till my hair went grey and my soul gave out,my dead hands gripping my useless sheepskin and a note that said “Hi, Mom!"

A Suburban rattled by,rap bass cranked to 11, and startled, I pulled back, thinking “Dude, you could kill somebody!” And then, as if it were a poem in lit class, I took the words apart, and realized, at least for these purposes, that I was somebody. The thought gave me the first excitement I had in months. I wasn’t any good with my electric chair either; I could take myself out and it would mostly look like an accident. I suppose it’s my innate Drama that kept me here, because I didn’t just become crazed with my revelation and become adapted road pizza that very day. Always a storyteller, I wanted to find the right moment, and it never quite arrived. Very quickly, I was too busy to die. Although I still wish I’d been so filled with love of life that this moment was just youthful craziness, like thinking Michael Jackson straight.

That moment hasn’t happened either.

I'd had my license 3 days. He was drunk. I'd only been manuevering a car for 6 months. My dad had been hit, on his bike, by a car 2 weeks before. Broken bones, shredded skin, a spaghetti bike. I was 4 blocks from home.

I turned left at the green light and there was a man and a bicycle on my hood.

I thought it was my dad.

Officer Heart administered the breathalizer. Officer Heart. I didn't start crying and blathering incoherently until I saw his name tag.

I'm still to blame, but there's one drunken bicyclist I didn't kill.

Erika and Sarameg -- wow those are both punches to the gut.

Thanks.

Oh, it's nice to see drabbles again.

I love erika's ability to wrap heart-scraping truth in high-qulaity chocolate snark.

Near death is my gift.

And Erika once again shoots and scores.

And then, as if it were a poem in lit class, I took the words apart, and realized, at least for these purposes, that I was somebody.

I love this sentence beyond the telling of it.

My favorite too, -t. Erika's drabbles are always painful.

Sarameg, Gar's right. That was a gut-punch.

It was erika's mention of road pizza that prompted it (dad referred to his pizza face after his accident.) Or started it percolating. Something like that. Thanks!