I noticed the jacked-up blue truck in my rear-view after I turned right off Highway 431 and passed McDonald’s. It came out of nowhere. I slowed, not wanting to wreck my rental and deal with that hassle. By the time I eased into the curve at five-points, the driver tightened the gap between our vehicles and started blasting his horn. I veered to the right towards Y-Mart to give the idiot all the space he needed to pass. Finally, he jerked his behemoth to the left and pulled next to me. There, he stayed, until we reached Mill Street Deli where he sped ahead, but not for long and not far enough. The right side of his rear bumper clipped my left front fender when he reentered my lane. I barely controlled the steering wheel to avoid leaving the road and barreling into the Domino’s Pizza parking lot. The idiot gave me the middle finger through his opened driver’s side window as he raced west towards downtown.
My hands were shaking, and my brow was sweating. I almost pulled into the Key West Inn to gather myself but didn’t. Although I was running a little early for my 1:00 PM appointment, I was ready to shed the responsibility for managing the pistol I believed had killed my best childhood friend.
I successfully timed two red-lights, crossed the railroad tracks, and turned left into the parking lot Micaden and eight other businesses, including First State Bank of Boaz, shared. I easily found a spot and parked. When I exited the Explorer, I looked around in all directions before removing the plastic-wrapped Smith & Wesson from beneath the floor mat. I quickly secured it inside my briefcase and walked even faster towards the law office, feeling more vulnerable than ever. Tina, the take-charge secretary/paralegal, was standing at the all-glass front door and welcomed me in. I felt safe. It turned out that Micaden had an emergency hearing in Etowah County and wasn’t available to meet. Tina assured me she’d lock the pistol in their safe.
I thanked her and returned to the Explorer. After circling the parking lot, I turned right and re-entered Highway 168. My luck was missing. I hadn’t gone twenty feet beyond the railroad track until the same damn truck slid in behind me; it couldn’t be an inch away from my rear bumper. At least this time, the damn horn wasn’t blasting.
***
The driver slowed when a Boaz Police car eased past us on the left. By the time I made it past five-points, the blue truck had faded to ten car lengths behind. Things stayed the same until I passed Pizza Hut and turned right a block from Walmart. I circled to the front of the Grocery section hoping I’d find a parking spot near the building entrance. Again, luck was on vacation.
Rachel had always advised, even demanded, I make opportunities for exercise. Today, I didn’t have a choice. I assumed Thanksgiving was the cause. I finally found a spot nearly a mile away, or so it seemed.
I exited the Explorer and walked to the rear passenger door to remove a box containing a new crock pot Kyla had asked me to return. The inner pot had cracked. Before removing the box, I checked my wallet to make sure I’d inserted the receipt. The last thing I remember was that it was still lying on the kitchen counter. Lucky for me, luck returned. I found it tucked where I’d put it.
Before I could fold my wallet and return it to my back pocket, I heard the blue behemoth. I turned to my right just enough to see the idiot barreling straight for me at maybe a forty-five-degree angle from where my Explorer was setting. A smothering fear engulfed me a split second before a knife-like pain tore through my left shoulder. I’m not sure, but it seemed the driver veered to his left a second before his bumper slammed into my Explorer’s right side passenger door. Like football, life was a game of inches.
As the driver sped away, my body collapsed to the ground though I was clutching a seat belt to maintain balance. Somehow, I could contort my body into an upright sitting position, squeezed between the still open door and the frame of the now-damaged rental. My shoulder was hurting. Blood pooled inside the palm of my hand after I touched my pounding forehead. I needed to call 911, but I couldn’t access my iPhone. I could see it but didn’t know if I could crawl that far. The impact had knocked it from my left hand, catapulting the needed device a good twenty feet from where I sat. Life isn’t just a game of inches, it’s a game of seconds.
The number of cars that passed within fifty feet surprised me. If the drivers hadn’t seen the accident, they certainly could see a man lying crumbled on the ground next to his car, most likely needing help. I guess everyone had that ‘I-don’t-want-to-get-involved’ attitude, in part because of tomorrow’s holiday. My theory held true for another couple of minutes until a large black SUV pulled within ten feet.
At first, I thought the woman sliding out of the driver’s seat was an angel.
***
“Lee, oh my God, what happened?” The woman who knew my name knelt and lightly re-angled my cheek to inspect my forehead. “That looks bad. Hold on.” She raced back to her vehicle. The perfume scent was faint, memorable I think, but I was woozy, and my eyes were glassy. I closed them and heard her calling 911. I wondered if she found my iPhone.
“Thanks for stopping by.” I whispered to no one as I felt I could pass out at any moment. I opened my eyes and saw an attractive woman, vaguely familiar, standing at the rear of her SUV with head cocked to the side, holding her phone to one ear as she scrounged through what I assumed was a pile of Walmart bags. Again, I closed my eyes, this time wondering if angels wear tight jeans and bulky Christmas sweaters.
The weirdly dressed angel returned, knelt beside me, and nudged my right shoulder, my good one. “The ambulance should be here in a minute or two. They said to keep you still as possible, but that I could wipe the blood from your forehead if it wasn’t too deep a gash.”
“Okay,” I said and looked into the woman’s eyes. They were bluish green. She had a pretty face, high cheekbones, and lips, the lips were.
“Lee. Look at me.” I thought that’s what I’d been doing while she kept wiping my face and forehead with a damp cloth. “You need to stay awake. What am I holding?” She reached to the ground beside her and held up a bottle of water. “Lee, answer my question.”
I wasn’t hearing very good, but it was how she said ‘question’ that I recognized the woman. Well, that and her shape, her face, her eyes, her lips. “Me, you’re holding me.”
“No dufus. This is water, bottled water.” She had brought an entire roll of paper-towels from her SUV, and several bottles of water. She kept pouring more onto clean towels. “Look at me, tell me your name, your full name?” I heard the siren getting closer.
I knew the answer, but I was also traveling to a place I’d never been. It was like I had fallen out of an airplane from thirty thousand feet, without a parachute. I was falling and spinning, and the air was thin. I was out of control, but crazily, I was hopeful. The cool water was keeping me afloat. With eyes closed, I said, “Thanks L, you’re the only one to stop.”
I opened my eyes and met hers. Blue for beautiful. Green for gorgeous. She smiled and caressed my cheek. “Did you call me L?”
The ambulance parked in the lane behind my Explorer. I saw two men and a woman exit. One man and a bulky leather bag were heading my way. The other two were removing a gurney through the opened rear doors. “Yes.” I returned my gaze to L. “You’re Lillian Bryant?”
The attendant arrived. “Please move.” He knelt and removed a stethoscope from his bag.
As L stood and backed away, I heard her say, “yes, I’m Lillian Bryant.”
“USA for God.” I said, still looking up at L while the EMT checked my vitals.
“What? Lee, what are you saying?” She squatted down four feet away.
“Tag number. The blue truck’s license: U S A, the number 4, and G O D.”
“Good, very good. I’ll go write it down.”
***
It was 5:55 pm, and I was semi-comfortable in the front passenger seat of Lillian’s SUV. She was inside, picking up my prescription. Through the side mirror, I stared at Walgreen’s front entrance, estimating how much longer it was going to take.
At straight-up six, she walked through the automatic doors. She was clutching a white paper sack. Assuming no mistakes by the pharmacy, the enclosed pill bottle contained the most powerful painkiller prescribed by U.S. emergency room doctors: Vicodin.
Dr. Claburn had taken an extra five minutes after he’d issued his discharge order to share a funny story about a man who had grossly mistaken the doctor’s home-care instructions. I guess he thought I was smart enough to not make the same mistake. The doctor had told the man he was recommending bananas. Two times the doctor had said he was only joking, that the word ‘bananas’ is street slang for Vicodin, that most powerful painkiller. When the orderly arrived to cart me to Lillian’s car, I’d told Dr. Claburn I would never see another banana unless I thought of him. He smiled and waved me off.
The afternoon visit to Marshall Medical Center South’s ER Department had been long and tiring. About an hour after my delivery, my wooziness had decreased by half, thanks to a covey of nurses and assistants administering an assortment of drugs by injection, intravenous drip, and via swallowing and dissolution under the tongue.
While waiting for x-rays and a nurse to stitch my head, Kyla had appeared. Shaken, especially after Lillian shared what she knew, some of which might have come unintentionally from me. Now, looking back, I’m sure Kyla’s fear had spawned from Lillian’s conclusion: “Someone tried to kill him.”
Lillian had stood watch over me throughout the entire ordeal. After the short ambulance ride, I’d groggily attempted to persuade her to leave. She’d refused and responded, barely above a whisper, something like, “Once is enough.” I didn’t comprehend her words.
I also didn’t understand why I wasn’t riding home with Kyla. “Damn, I’ve never had to wait this long. Your insurance card was out-of-date, and I’m pretty sure they had to call some place in India.”
“Surely not.” I let Lillian get situated and backed up. I didn’t need to cause another wreck. “Question, why did Kyla leave you to do all the dirty work?” I felt high as a kite.
“She told you and so did I. She was doing a lot of baking for tomorrow and was afraid she’d left her oven on. Once she saw you weren’t going to die, she asked if I would bring you home.” Lillian patted my left knee.
My emotions were a roller coaster. I normally keep my gratitude to myself, but not now. “I have a lot to be thankful for. An unbroken shoulder, an unbroken head, and an old friend showing up at the perfect time.”
Lillian turned left on Bruce Road and gave me a head-to-toe inspection, lingering an uncomfortable moment on my eyes. “I’m not old.” We both had a pleasant laugh.
Neither of us said much until she slowed for the stop sign at Beulah Road. I thought an 18-wheeler was about to hit us after she said, “Oh shit.” She paused and looked at her rear-view mirror. “My groceries: ice-cream, milk, hamburger meat, pork chops. They’re ruined.”
I almost told her I’d make it right but didn’t. Instead, my smart-ass mouth activated. “Friendship can be costly.” She pulled her left signal to Kyla’s driveway and rolled her eyes, half looking at me and half at the road.
That had always been a sign she thought I was rather lame.
The Pencil Driven Life 