Alcohol free-Day 4

By four in the morning I’m very, very tired. I click the lamp off, my head hits the pillow and I slowly begin descending into sleep. Fifteen seconds into it I hear a shockingly loud

BAMMM

and my eyes pop open.

Without a doubt that was the sound of a car accident, and judging by the volume of the crunch, the vehicle involved was huge. The lack of screeching preceding the impact means the driver didn’t even brake.

Well. I’m sure someone will call the police. There are plenty of other neighbors who probably heard it, I think, and close my eyes.

“Fuuuuck,” I say, opening them again. It’s attitudes like this that led to the Kitty Genovese thing, and I don’t want to be one of those people. (Do a Google if you don’t know what I’m talking about.) I get out of bed and start pulling clothes on.

It’s cold and raining outside. First thing I see is a newspaper delivery truck, massive and dinosaur-proportioned, pulled over by the curb. They often rocket up my block late at night, because if you really gun it you can catch all the lights in a row. The driver is standing in front of the truck with a cell phone pressed against his ear.

The yellowtop cab he T-boned is thirty feet behind, skewed crazily in the middle of the intersection, passenger side crunched in like a “C.” The taxi driver is still sitting in the driver’s seat, talking calmly into his cell. Next to the cab lies the massive front bumper from the News truck, torn off from the impact.

Another yellowtop cab cruises past the damaged one and slows conspicuously, the way I’d imagine Serengeti wildebeests might pause when passing a mortally-wounded brother. The drivers make eye contact and then the undamaged cab is on its way.

There’s nothing for me to do down here, so I go back inside.

Poor Ms. Genovese, reduced to a paragraph or two in sociology textbooks. A shame if you ask me.