Disaster

While going up the scenic way to K2 to move my car, I saw a layer of kitty litter in the first stairwell. I thought: how gross! Somebody decided to clean up their cat box on the stairs. I kept climbing. There was a lot of kitty litter, but then it started smelling faintly of gasoline. At the top, I found a steel railing all deformed. It looked as if a giant set of orthodontic braces had snapped. As I surveyed the rest of the scene, it became apparent somebody didn't notice the "NOT A THRU STREET" sign. They barreled down the steep cul-de-sac and had left black skidmarks all the way to the final curb.

I recreated the disaster in my head:

A car full of young gay boys were up until 4 AM partying and were zig-zagging their way back to the Castro in their blue 1986 Honda Civic. One of the guys in the back said, "Turn left here!" and the driver turned. Then, jaws drop, "Holy Shit!", and "Lookout!". I also imagined air bags deploying. I know, this couldn't happen in a '86 Honda, but, in my version of the story, there are definitely air bags.

I wanted to stick around the area until a local person came out of the a house. I wanted to hear the real story. Were there air bags? What did it sound like? How badly were they hurt? I have parked on the same street and pointed my wheels into the curb. I liked thinking about what would happen if my car ran away. I love thinking about disasters. I don't know what disturbs me more, seeing a disaster or missing one.

I waited. I waited for almost five minutes. Nobody came out of their house. An inert soccer ball lay next to the curb. I picked it up and walked with it over to a house with a nicely manicured miniature lawn. The chime was shockingly loud for such a small place.

A slender old man with wispy gray eyebrows came to the door. He reminded me of my grandfather except the man before me was much taller, even with a bad slouch.

"This wouldn't happen to be your soccer ball, would it?" I asked.

"No, 'fraid not," he said and raised his hand slowly. "It's probably one of the kid's from up the hill." Then, his hand fell back to the door handle and abruptly closed the door.

"Wait," I blurted. "Please -- " and he reopened the door just a couple of inches. "Could I ask you another question?"

"What would that be?"

The door opened six more inches.

"I want to ask you -- I wanted to ask -- What happened down there?"

A long silence. He looked at me with the saddest eyes I have ever seen.

"Two nights ago, my wife, we've been married for almost sixty years."

He began to cry.

"She had an aneurysm. They were at the top of the hill. Our four year old grandson was in the backseat. He's okay in the hospital. But she -- ,"

He lowers his head and he opens his mouth, nothing comes out, then it closes, and he opens it again.


"My Margaret -- "



"I'm so sorry," I say.



"I loved her more than anything."