When I turned 16, I got my drivers license almost right away, but I was told to stick close to home until I could demonstrate that I was responsible and trustworthy.
I was on my way back from the library late one afternoon, with both hands on the steering wheel, when out of the corner of my eye, I saw an airborne motorcycle go flying past my side window.
I slammed on the brakes, and it was a good thing, because in front of me was a person lying in the road.
I ran over to him, and he was conscious, but not making much sense. I told him I was getting help, then ran to the nearest house and asked them to call an ambulance.
When I came back to the guy, I was stunned to see that both of his legs were missing below the knee.
There was blood, although not as much as one might expect, and no tourniquet was required. But after seeing the blood, I think I must have panicked, and I remember running around the immediate neighborhood trying to find his legs. I looked in bushes, under cars and along the gutters, but couldn’t find them. The longer this went on, the more frantic I became.
A young man wearing a helmet came running over, and it soon became clear that he was the one riding the flying motorcycle. He had apparently hit the man who was now lying in the street, and he was understandably distraught.
When I told him I was looking for the guy’s legs, he screamed, “I didn’t see him! I swear! Oh my God! Oh my God!” and he began looking in the same places I had just been. But no legs yet.
Several minutes had passed, and we were still waiting for an ambulance and the police. The motorcyclist was sobbing hysterically about how sorry he was. I tried to comfort him, as well as the man in the street, who was laughing at that point. I presumed it was shock setting in.
He kept trying to say something about his legs, and I told him to be quiet and relax, that everything will be OK, and that we’ll find his legs. But the more I tried to reassure him, the harder he laughed, and I still couldn’t quite understand what he was saying.
The ambulance finally came and took the man away, and after the the police got their statements, they explained to me that the man was well-known to them. He was already a double amputee, and was quite drunk in his wheelchair when he popped out from between two cars, and subsequently knocked into the road by the passing motorcycle.
Somehow in my search for the legs, I’d missed the wheelchair, which had ended up in someone’s driveway next to a car.
He was going to be fine, but I was not. I wanted to feel sorry for the guy, but I felt nauseous, stupid and betrayed all at the same time.
I walked into my house, still shaking from the after-effects of the adrenalin, just as my mom was serving dinner. I told her I wasn’t hungry, but that I had a story to tell. She sat and listened dispassionately, and then declared, “Well since you’re ok, dinner is on the table. Spaghetti and meatballs.”
But I wasn’t interested in meat or tomato sauce that evening, or for the next several days.
Photo Source: Krista Stucchio / UnSplash
SMUDGED POSTCARDS 