To illustrate this, I present the
following cases. Enter a boy, a red-blooded Canadian youth with delusions of
immortality, and a thrill of speed….
We were over at John’s place, preparing to
go…wherever. We were running a little late, in a bit of a hurry. We ran out the
door, piling into John’s truck, among other vehicles when John’s father came
round from the back of the house. “John,” he called, “you forgot to bring the
car into the driveway, like I asked you.” John looked at the Volvo parked on
the street, and said, “Oh, fuck…I forgot.” He rushed back into the house,
collected the keys and got behind the wheel. He revved the engine, cranked the
steering wheel, and backed into the drive. Quickly. We were running late, don’t
forget. The car pulled off the road in a smooth arc. And didn’t appear to be losing
much speed. My heart skipped as I watched the car close with the house. When
the Volvo did stop, it did so in a screech of tires, a hair’s breadth beyond
the bricks within the inset depth of the basement window sill. John hopped out
of the Volvo, rounded the car, and bent down to look at the bumper. He looked
up at my obviously still anxious features, and wearing a broad smile, said,
“Holy crap, that was close.”
Winter time, Renato, Garry and I were in
Renato’s car, racing up Ross Street. Why were we travelling so fast? Lord
knows. All I can say is that Renato went everywhere fast, but Garry and I never
once thought to tell Renato to slow down. We were high school students,
reckless, risk takers. And one didn’t nag one’s friends. Or ever appeared afraid
in front of them. As we were about to top the hill, we saw another car pull out
of Toke Street with the intent to gain our opposing lane. The trouble was, we
were travelling so fast Renato’s car was floating on a cushion of air. Renato
inched the wheel to the right and the car settled, catching just enough road to
find traction. I watched from the back seat as the car we were about to T-bone
accelerated, and we raced past, barely avoiding its back bumper. Renato
struggled to control the Firebird, fishtailing left and right for two blocks
before he brought the beast under control again. A heartbeat later Renato said
to a deathly quiet car, “Whoa…that was close.” Did I say that not one of us was
wearing a seat-belt?
Chris and John were in Chris’s parent’s
new car. Ozzy Osbourne was singing “Flying High Again.” The volume was
deafening, likely trailing bass for blocks. Chris hit a pothole, the car skid
to the ditch, and Chris and John felt the car begin to roll. And it did. Both were
thankfully wearing their seatbelts this time because the car came to rest on
its roof. John told me later that “the stereo stopped playing while we rolled.
At least I think it did, because I don’t remember hearing it. And when we
stopped rolling, we were stuck there, hanging from our seats.” And then he
chucked, his grin ear to ear. “Just then,” he said, “all was quiet. (Pause for
effect) And then when the stereo began playing again we hear Ozzy sing,
‘Momma’s gonna worry, I’ve been a bad, bad boy.’”
I did not become wiser with age, or learn
from our earlier recklessness, either, as evidence will show. I’ll skip ahead a
couple years, I’m 19, out of high school, through my first year of college and
working at my first real job as a student at Kidd Creek Mine. I’ve money in my
pocket, money to burn on gas. And still oblivious to potential harm. I was
cruising, driving my mother’s ‘79 Malibu. Man, what a car! V8, rear wheel
drive, prone to fishtailing due to its oversize engine and weight distribution.
Way too much power for my limited experience; I’d only passed my driver’s test
and received my license the summer before. I made a pit stop, stopping to visit
Dan Loreto and Anthony Lionello, up in Moneta. They were playing baseball, but
took a break when they saw me pull up. We chatted for a while, but not for
long; I had to get home. So, I jumped back behind the steering wheel, promptly
forgetting my seatbelt. I peeled out, rounded the Flora MacDonald playground,
and headed back north up Balsam and drove right through the stop sign at Kirby
without seeing it or slowing down.
Halfway through Kirby, I saw a big black
shape loom in my peripheral vision. I glanced left and saw the toothy maw of a
grill bearing down on me. Time slowed to a crawl. I realized that the truck
about to hit me was travelling at immense speed. I realized that there was no
way I’d clear the intersection before I was hit, no matter what speed I was
travelling at. I leaned to the right, I suppose in an attempt to retreat from
the truck that’s about to hit me, and my left arm instinctively rose in the
feeble hope of warding me from harm.
And then the car crumpled around me. Titillation
sparkled as the glass flew. My arm caught most of it. The collapsing door
thrust me further into the passenger seat. The Malibu was thrown from the grill
of the pickup and I felt the tires scrape and skid on the asphalt. The car
crashed into the black, wrought iron picket fence at the corner, scraping it
hard. I heard metal tear.
I rose up from the passenger seat, sliding
back into the now too tight driver’s seat. And tried to crank the steering
wheel to correct the car’s travel, to hold it straight. The car responded, but
it did so grudgingly. The wheel was stiff and tested my strength, but I did
manage to set the car against the curb. It came to a stop. I put it in park.
And reached to release my seatbelt. Oh, my numb mind said, when I couldn’t find
it, it wasn’t on. I tried the driver’s side door. It wouldn’t budge. I reached
over and tried the passenger’s. Neither did it.
I noticed than that there was broken glass
around me, and saw that the driver’s window was broken, shards of glass jutting
up from the door, so I tried to roll down the other. It wouldn’t roll down. I
was determined to be free of the car, so I reached out, onto the roof, and pulled
myself past through the driver’s side empty space. I almost blacked out,
actually saw the edges of my vision narrow, but I didn’t. I pulled myself
through the window space, and miraculously didn’t fall to the asphalt. I set
one foot on the ground, and then I collapsed. I rose up, and made my way on
weak, unsteady legs across the street, where I flopped down onto a stretch of
grass there.
I looked back and saw a trail of blood
leading back to the car, smears of blood on the roof, on the door. It dawned on
me that, oh, that must be mine.
More details resolved to my sluggish mind.
I’d parked in front of the Loreto’s house. I heard screen doors crash open.
Two thoughts crossed my mind. My old man’s
gonna kill me, was the first. And, my insurance is gonna go sky high. I began
to giggle. I couldn’t stop.
That’s when I heard Mrs. Loreto scream,
and saw Mario Senior rushing across the street towards me.
