Mark's Pages

June 16, 2003:

Sleepy morning streets, suburbs. People stop for coffee, buy newspapers, pop into the Post Office. The surf is calm and quiet; the sun has not yet crested the eastern hills.

You turn left at the Post Office. On the right an SUV displays its white reverse-gear warning lights, waiting for you to pass before backing into traffic.

Something is not right. The car in front of you stops, shifts into reverse, comes flying fast straight at your nose. Time slows, becomes bifurcated. You're thinking far faster than the events unfold. She wants the parking space the SUV is leaving. She doesn't see you. Her foot's hard on the gas. Yours is hard on the brake. She's going to hit you. You can't believe it. Time stops.

The sound is overwhelmingly loud. Even with your windows up and the radio on it reverberates like the end of the world.

There's a long moment of silence before time becomes normal. You're not hurt. She's not hurt. The rear bumper of her American-made sedan is off, trunk hood is buckled, rear window cracked. Your little Toyota is totally unharmed, except for the plastic license plate holder, crushed and dangling.

"It's my fault," she says, over and over, as if anyone were arguing with her.