Slip n' Slide

It started raining again tonight, when I was in the middle of my pedagogy class. I dread the rain now, having almost died a couple weeks ago.

No hyperbole: I was almost roadkill a couple weeks ago, on the evening of Monday October 9. This is what you miss when I don't update my blog.

It was dark when class let out then. And the rain was pouring like the end of the world. I mean puddles in the sidewalk give pedestrians the splash treatment when cars fly by. I had taken my helmet with me indoors and, like an ass, I left it in the English grad student mailbox room. When I got out of my pedagogy class, I realized I was not longer holding my helmet and with all the major rooms closed, I would have to ride home in the rain without it.

And then Murphy's Law.

I was being cautious -- driving slow and steady on the slick road. And at High Street and Hillside, only two blocks from my apartment's block, two cars in front of me break suddenly. They weren't even 100 yards away. I break. Hard. Too hard. And my back wheel fish-tails foward, and I'm now facing my right side, the sidewalk. The bike collapses and the shield that covers the driver's legs in the front of the scooter, I can hear it gritting against the paved pebbles of the road. I squeeze the handles because I'm afraid that if I don't I might fly off and tumble into the trees on the side of the street. Because if I didn't hang on, I'd grind my helmet-less skull against pavement like a block of cheese on a steel grater.

It happened so fast that I only remember noticing two things:

1. That my right palm does graze the road as I slide my 50-odd yards
2. That the right side of my body does touch the ground, with my black shoulder bag on my back cushioning my ass
   

Then I smash into the car in front of me, a green Nissan that broke for the car in front of it -- my front wheel lodged under his bumper. I am soaked in gray gutter water. My right sweater sleeve, my right pant leg down into my socks and the inside of my shoe -- all heavy now with water. And it's still raining hard as I stumble to stand up, dazed. I go up to the passenger window of the car I smashed into and he asks if I'm okay and I say yes even though I can't feel my right hand. I clutch the wrist and notice that I only have a small dot in the left bottom of my palm and realized how lucky I was to just be in one piece.

It was like that kid's game from the late 80's or early 90's: where you attach a yellow vinyl carpet to the water hose and fly down the thing with your friends. Slip n' Slide, I think it was called. I think the jingle sang You run...you slide...you hit the bump and then you dive!

Because I was too confused to know what to do with myself and the situation, I told the driver he could leave. He never once stepped out of the car. When he took off, shattered red plastic from the fender of my front-wheel cover were splayed on the ground like jig-saw puzzle pieces. A red pick-up pulled over and a nice couple offered to take me home. All I could do was say, "Oh, it's okay. I don't want to get your car wet." over and over again, clutching that numb right hand. I made myself close and open it, to make sure it wasn't dead. The couple loaded my bike into their trunk against my protest and ushered me into the front seat, where I just repeated "I don't want to get your car wet."

When I got home, I showered, looking pathetic as I sat on the tub floor holding my knees in and let the hot water heat my cold skin. I must have looked like those rape victims you always see in made-for-TV movies, or at least that guy in "The Crying Game".

My right side had a purple elongated shape of Japan running up and down for over a week. Too bad David wasn't with me, because I would have gone around showing off my bruise, saying he did it to me. I'd tell people, "He didn't mean to do it...He's just been a little stressed lately."

Or, "I know he loves me. He said he was sorry. This is how I know he loves me."

Or, "Please don't tell anyone. I did kinda deserve it."

Then I'd go home, turn my head so I can see the bruise in the mirror, and play the crying game.