When I was at work last Sunday (home decor retail), I saw an elderly man on a bike get hit by a car. Swear to heaven, sure as I was havin’ a smoke on the sidewalk. The gentleman was okay—meaning he may have a broken arm or shoulder, but his legs were working and he was helped to the sidewalk. Sunday night is a big trash night, and big trash cans teeter at the edge of the curb. The gentleman rider, following a much more agile and experienced, female biker, was unsure of his turn and hit the trash can hanging over the street. He fell into a car passing him on the left.
In the first split seconds after the impact, I remember the sounds, louder than I would have thought, brakes and metal on metal and an unequivocal thud and what I’m sure was myself and others gasping. And I remember the SUV that was stopped at the red light between me and the accident on the other side of the street. The woman sitting on the passenger side of the large vehicle turned her face to me and we both held our palms to our faces Macaulay Culkin style, frozen in that stupid pose for what seemed like a very long time. The offending driver stopped immediately, many people ran to the fallen man who was badly shaken but refusing an ambulance. Traffic was a bit of a mess and some drunken woman in a golf cart starting cursing a blue streak at another driver for no good reason that I could figure out, and the biker limped away with a small following. It’s high season, it’s busy in town, restaurants are full, white hair is everywhere. Old people and inexperienced bikers, please stay off of the heavily traveled streets. It’s bad, seriously, I dodge these folks like stray bullets.
And speaking of high season, in the past thirty-four days, I have had company for 24 nights. The quip of the island: fish and company—after 4 days they both start to stink.
photo credit: chicksandfixes_wordpress