I hate crying. It clogs the sinuses and often starts a headache. It is particularly bad when driving because you either have to pull over or squint through your tears to see the road. When it happens during a morning commute, who really wants to take the time to pull over?
Yesterday, preoccupied with the prospect of experiencing my first hurricane, I thought the flashing lights in the distance might be due to a road closed from flooding. I thought, “Great, just a mile from home and I am going to get detoured.” As I got closer, I could see that there were three police cars with their noses all pointing towards each other in the middle of the road. I thought it strange and proceeded slowly, as the few cars on the road braving the weather went down to one lane. It was just a couple of car lengths before the intersection, so I was right beside the police activity as I was stopped for the red light. When I turned my head and looked, my hand went to my mouth in horror and I couldn’t stop the tears.
An empty car was in the center turning lane, and a few feet in front of it was a wheelchair. The wheelchair was knocked on its side with pieces of metal scattered all around.
Just beyond the base of the chair was a single, empty shoe.
I have seen him sitting at the intersection. His hair long and wild, I imagined that he might be a Vietnam vet. When he would cross this very busy intersection, he would do it with impressive speed, but he was unpredictable. Sometimes he would just dart out, sometimes he would wheel himself backwards, while other times he would carefully wait for the light. He might have been homeless; he was probably not mentally stable. But he was as much a part of my daily commute as the road itself – except he had a name.
The police officers were taking pictures of the scene and going about their business in what appeared to be an emotionally detached way. I realize that they see things like this, and worse, every day. But the placement of cars, police officers, empty wheelchair, and shoe, looked like a bizarre still life carefully being photographed - that someday, might appear in an exhibition of surrealistic hyper-realism.
Had I left for work a few minutes earlier, I may have been part of that picture.
I have seen this man every day on my way to work for nearly two years. I did not see him this morning.
There was no hurricane, just a lot of rain.
I went about my day, like any other day.
I can’t get the image of that empty shoe out of my head.
Yesterday, preoccupied with the prospect of experiencing my first hurricane, I thought the flashing lights in the distance might be due to a road closed from flooding. I thought, “Great, just a mile from home and I am going to get detoured.” As I got closer, I could see that there were three police cars with their noses all pointing towards each other in the middle of the road. I thought it strange and proceeded slowly, as the few cars on the road braving the weather went down to one lane. It was just a couple of car lengths before the intersection, so I was right beside the police activity as I was stopped for the red light. When I turned my head and looked, my hand went to my mouth in horror and I couldn’t stop the tears.
An empty car was in the center turning lane, and a few feet in front of it was a wheelchair. The wheelchair was knocked on its side with pieces of metal scattered all around.
Just beyond the base of the chair was a single, empty shoe.
I have seen him sitting at the intersection. His hair long and wild, I imagined that he might be a Vietnam vet. When he would cross this very busy intersection, he would do it with impressive speed, but he was unpredictable. Sometimes he would just dart out, sometimes he would wheel himself backwards, while other times he would carefully wait for the light. He might have been homeless; he was probably not mentally stable. But he was as much a part of my daily commute as the road itself – except he had a name.
The police officers were taking pictures of the scene and going about their business in what appeared to be an emotionally detached way. I realize that they see things like this, and worse, every day. But the placement of cars, police officers, empty wheelchair, and shoe, looked like a bizarre still life carefully being photographed - that someday, might appear in an exhibition of surrealistic hyper-realism.
Had I left for work a few minutes earlier, I may have been part of that picture.
I have seen this man every day on my way to work for nearly two years. I did not see him this morning.
There was no hurricane, just a lot of rain.
I went about my day, like any other day.
I can’t get the image of that empty shoe out of my head.
9 comments:
That is so sad Thom. Thank you for sharing - it sort of puts things into perspective to me. I guess we have alot to thankful for.... xoxoxo
Tom
Oh, Thom, that's terrible! Here I was thinking you were going to talk about the ugly-cry face. I absolutely despise crying...but I would've if I'd experienced this.
Did it make the news, by chance? I'm just wondering if maybe, just maybe, he survived & is in a hospital.
What a sad picture. Like Claire, I too hope that he survived.
Your story made me think of several mentally ill folks who live in my neighborhood, in a couple of group homes. They are familiar faces in my life, as they are frequently on the move, walking to and from the nearby convenience stores. There's "Chanting Guy," a forbidding man who aligns his feet a certain way while waiting for the traffic light to change and who stands chanting at the sun. There's the "Hat Guy," who sits on the brick mailbox, in a different hat almost every day, with a broad smile on his face...we always exchange a wave when I drive past. But sometimes I don't see them for days on end and I worry...did their tortured existence overwhelm them, or did they abandon the home for the streets, or did they flip out and wind up in the psych ward, or did they get in a fight and wind up in jail?
Would it make a difference to this man in the wheelchair to know that someone shed tears for him? Maybe, maybe not. But it makes a difference for all of us that someone did...
It's so true that even those we don't know can impact our emotions...sometimes it's by the sheer force of regularity of presence.
We get used to certain certainties in our day.Seeing the school kids walk down the block in bunches at the same time each day,frantic and giggling,crying at some injustice dealt by their parents.
Or the mailman going through his rounds,arriving more or less at your box consistently everyday for who knows how many years.
Or the shop clerk whom you buy that coffee from every morning,eyeing you to make sure you don't spill or make a mess.
More people affect us than we realize,until they are no longer there.
"The police officers were taking pictures of the scene and going about their business in what appeared to be an emotionally detached way."
Oh, sure, Thom.
Perpetuate the stereotype many members of the public have of us cops - emotionless, coffee-drinking, donut eating, ticket-writing, jack-booted Nazi thugs . . .
. . . just kidding. It bothers us, too. But you are correct, "I realize that they see things like this, and worse, every day." After awhile you become desensitized to the gruesome, the gore, the blood, the horror, the tragedy, the saddness, and the utter senselessness that most of society only gets to read about in the news. The difference is we get to live it day after day. We, too, share the emotions, but are expected to "keep a stiff upper lip" in view of the public. We have soft spots for those in our society that need our help the most - the young, the old, the weak, and the frail.
I bawled my head off after the first SIDS death I responded to. I held the 20 month old in my arms and tried to blow life into his tiny limp body (CPR).
I've had to sit across the table from an elderly Asian man and try to explain why and how he lost his wife of 35 years in a horrible traffic accident (truly an accident).
I've stared down at the sight of a fellow officer, despondent over a failing relationship, lying in a in a bloody pool on the garage floor after he put a bullet in his head and blew his brains out.
Yes, we, too, cry. Often, however, we cry alone or just on the inside . . .
How sad indeed! I cried like that when I saw my neighbor's cat get hit by a car, and then again when I saw a clearly terrified cat run in front of a car and get hit. I can only imagine seeing that shoe. Sending hugs your way!
Thom,
I'm here via Claire's blog and this post is overwhelming.
I am so sorry. As others have mentioned, I hope he survived.
How horrific for everyone...
Stepher
Thank you for your kind words, Stepher - and welcome!
Brilliant post. Interestingly enough, the writer Garrison Keillor had a somewhat similar experience to yours while in Santa Monica that he wrote about in the Minneapolis Star Tribune-dated 09/30.
http://www.startribune.com/opinion/29953844.html?elr=KArksUUUU
Your post was very moving, poignant and well written.
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