I was walking my dog Flora around my parents’ neighborhood and
talking on the phone with a friend.
Suddenly, I hear a gunning engine and squealing tires. I turn, and see a black Ford car turning
wildly on top of the raised median in the middle of the street. The car turns my way and accelerates at
me. I calculate which way to go and run
up hill away from it, putting more fence between us and pulling Flora along.
The car crashes through the wooden fence and hits more
fence, shattering its windshield. The
car screeches to a stop and then hurls backwards, accelerating back off the
sidewalk, across the street, and up onto the median again—and taking a huge
chunk of wood-and-wire fence with it, which it deposits on the median.
The car turns crazily and then slams on the acceleration
again, bulleting through a different section of fence, across a dipped patch of
grass. I’m already dialing 911. The car stops, rams backwards, destroying
more fence. I’m on the phone with the
operator, spitting out the license plate number, the make and color, and the
cross streets. The car accelerates
forward again at yet more fence and hits it at speed. But it also hits pots full of concrete and
gets wedged on them. Two wooden fence posts
impale the windshield. The driver tries
to keep driving but can’t.
Three passersby come up to the driver and try to talk with
her. I stay down the street, unwilling
to get closer to this lunatic and still on the phone with the 911 operator, who
is telling me to breathe. I am nice to
her, and don’t explain that although I’m hyped up on adrenaline and speaking quickly, I’m neither
afraid nor panicking. It was just too
weird, too fast, too dissociating to be traumatic. What are we in, a B movie?
The driver finally gets out of her car. She’s white with brown hair, wearing (I tell
the 911 operator), neutral gray-brown slacks and a matching patterned
shirt. She’s an adult of indeterminate
age, and having trouble standing. She is
now attempting to get back into her car and not doing a great job of it. She finally manages it, and pushes a wooden
fence post out her shattered windscreen with her bare hand. I know she’s going to attempt to start
driving again, but that’s when the police cars arrive, sirens blaring and
lights flashing.
It’s been not even two minutes.
The driver gets out of the car and talks to the police
officers. One asks her to walk in a
straight line, but she can’t; she can barely stand. She shows him her hands, which are covered in
blood. I can hear only part of what is
said, I’m so far away. But she says her
name she doesn’t remember the accident.
The police interview another witness, a lady who lives
nearby and only saw part of it, and was one of the three who came up to ask if
the driver was all right. I’m left to
wait for now; I think the police aren’t sure if I’m just a rubbernecker, but
the 911 lady told me to wait. It’s
mildly hot, and Flora is upset. My
friend calls me and asks what happened—I said “oh my gosh,” there was a clatter
(had I dropped my phone? No, it was the
fence) and then the call ended. I’d
forgotten I’d been on the phone with her, and I briefly explained.
The police officer asked the driver her name. It was Debbie, of all things . . .
A police van, a policeman on motorcycle, a fire truck, and
an ambulance join the scene. Debbie is
strapped into the ambulance and taken away.
I wonder if I can leave. A police
officer finally comes up to me and asks if I’m a witness. I tell him that yes, in fact, I saw the whole
thing—she nearly ran me over, and I called 911. . . .
He explains that Debbie is not a DUI but severely diabetic
and having a low blood sugar blackout.
On top of that, she’s hearing impaired—hence why she wasn’t communicating
well with the passersby. She will be
held responsible, of course, and will have to take better care of herself if
she wants to keep driving. He’s glad I’m
not hurt.
Later that day, I take my mom to show her the spot so she
can visualize it, and we meet the owner of the fence. He apparently came home to a bafflingly
ruined fence and a note on his door from the police. The smashed car is gone, and the bits of
fence scattered on the sidewalk and median have been tidied up. I explain to him what happened. He says he’s diabetic and has family members
with severe diabetes, and that you can feel problems coming on and deal with
them before they get back (instead of getting behind the wheel). He always keeps candy bars with him.
So that was fun.
(On a side note: my first cousin once removed, who's English (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jasper_Griffin), once remarked that he rather enjoys the American way of telling stories in present tense. I almost always think about that when I tell stories like this because, yes, I pretty much always do so in present.)
