Content Warning: Description of serious physical injury. Circa 1991.
Bringing the kids back to their mom after their visit with me, in the late Sunday afternoon prewinter darkness, I turned left under a green light from Dingens Street onto South Ogden, and the bridge over the I-90 swung into view.
At the crest, a late-model pickup truck was upside down, tail toward me, partly over the double yellow line.
In my lane, facing me at a standstill was a nearly unrecognizable compact car with the entire front end smashed almost all the way to the firewall. Fuck.
I pulled over to the curb, stopped, killed the engine, and put on the four ways. “Wait here. Do not leave the truck,” I said sternly. “I’ll be right back, and I’ll be within your sight the whole time.” I got out, locked the truck behind me, and started up the incline to the wreck, about 30 yards away. The silence fell on me. Oh, god. I hope I’m doing the right thing.
Ahead on the right, a figure supine, torso on the sidewalk, legs in the street. Jeans and work boots. Probably male. The view is blocked by half a dozen or so people standing around him, silent and staring down at him. Maybe dead. Get ready.
As I continue to walk up to the scene, I scan the entire area, left to right. At 8 o’clock, five adults, a pair and a trio. Casually acquainted, talking and gesturing quietly, possibly neighbors drawn by the collision.
I’m trying to figure out what happened – which direction each vehicle was originally traveling, and at what speed. The pickup oddly silent, balanced on the cab roof and tailgate, it looks like you could give it a good spin with minimal effort, like a giant shiny toy. 10 o’clock. Chevy. Lights off, engine off. No smell of gasoline, no smoke or flames. Battery might be shorted, explosion and fire risk…
As I pass the pickup, the driver comes into view, wandering around the center of the left lane as if he had just been beamed here from another planet, babbling in an inscrutable alien language, nonsense syllables tripping over his tongue like stream water over stones. White male, 22-25 yo, 6’, 135 – 150 lbs., dazed, but not agitated. No bleeding or serious injuries apparent, ambulatory, probably in shock. Appears inebriated, no weapons observed.
Scanning to the right as I advance, the car is maybe 40 feet ahead of me. Steam is pouring from what is left of the engine compartment, the turn signal still stupidly flashing, and all the vital fluids slowly running to the gutter. This accident just happened. Bystanders might have been passengers. No one appears injured…
The windshield of the car is demolished, with a hole at the bottom driver’s side that was big enough for a child to pass through. The driver’s door was wide open, and the back quarter of the engine was in the cabin. The dashboard and steering wheel had been crushed back within less than a foot of the driver’s seat. How the hell did anyone survive that crush?
I turned to my right. White male, 26-30 yo, 5’ 6” – 5’ 8”, 140 – 160 lbs. Conscious, responsive, holding a filthy rag to the right side of his face. Five bystanders standing within two feet of him, two to the left, three to the right. Motionless, silent, and staring
I crouched, said hello, asked him what happened, and to let me see under the rag. The trauma was so severe, that in the glare of a single overhead sodium vapor streetlight, I could not tell if he even still had his left eye. There was a web of multiple lacerations, and the momentary gleam of orbital bone before welling blood obscured it. His face was likely peeled from the midline of the orbit to the left temple, and then returned near its original position. Ah. He went through the windshield. There must be internal injuries from the steering column.
I realized immediately that looking at the wound was pointless. Nothing was spurting, so I told him to resume steady pressure. I looked up at the circle of faces standing around us and made eye contact with one. “Would you please go call 9-1-1?”
Nothing. Next person. “Would you please go call 9-1-1?”
Nothing but vacant stares.
Under my breath, “Fuck this.” I told my casualty that I would be right back, I absolutely had to get a 911 call out.
I ran full tilt down a nearby embankment into the neighborhood below. I could really use wings right now. A hawk falling from a stone tower. We used to live in this neighborhood, so that was a lucky break. I banged on a familiar door., and our old neighbor answered the door. Squad and aid cars were there in what seemed like a little over 5 minutes.
During the wait, the guy pleaded with me to take care of his guitar, which was in the back seat of the car, unscathed. He gave me his friend’s phone number, which I wrote on my hand, and would I please, please take it to his friend, it meant a lot to him. There’s not much else I can do for him. This is the least I can do, even if he doesn’t make it.
A paramedic materialized at my left, “OK, we got this.” With that, my role evaporated, so I stood, turned and slipped away. And nobody asked me a goddamned thing.
I got back into my car, and continued on to drop off the kids. I don’t remember saying anything about what I had seen, and I often wonder how they remember this night.
The next day, when I dropped off the guitar, his friend looked at me very strangely, and it was years later before I figured out that he might have thought I was the cause of the accident.
These two photos were made two hours and about 75 miles apart. On the left, the western face of the Cascade Mountains near Index, Washington. Weather moves inland from the Pacific Ocean and runs into the Cascades, where moisture is dropped as the air is forced upward.
