Drt (5 page)

The giant tires caught the asphalt. The ground underneath trembled from the weight, and the traffic camera pointed at the scene shook like it was sitting on a jostling bed. The cab of the truck cut to avoid the car but the trailer swung forward. The disabled vehicle, which I learned later had a family inside, was slapped and went flying as if thrown by a catapult. It looked like it was rolling when it disappeared from the view of the camera.
 

The cab lunged toward the trees. Slowly, in my mind, the cab of the truck started disintegrating. It was shredded by trees that stood firm in the ground; some of the large branches pierced the metal and glass. The trees took some damage but not as much as the metal, they cut through the cab like it was nothing more than wet paper. The trailer looked like a ripple went down through it, its sides fell open as it passed, throwing all the contents inside the trailer onto the asphalt below. When it finally came to a stop, the truck was barely recognizable, the mangled monster now on its side in a ghastly twist of metal, bent by the violence wrought by casual standing trees.
 

There was no sound in the traffic center. I could barely breathe.

The scanner chirped, “Holy shit! Did you see that?!?” There was a lot of noise on the frequency. It chirped again, “We’ve got a major accident near the site of the previously reported disabled vehicle. We need everyone out there now. Inner Loop of the Beltway, accident with a tractor trailer in the trees,” whoever it was on the scanner continued to give reports of the still smoking scene.

I wondered if Bob would take issue with this.
 

6

I have a theory that watching the progression and aftermath of the crash on the monitors somehow made the whole thing more dramatic. Maybe if I had heard the sounds of the wheels screaming, the metal twisting, and the glass shattering, it would have been more real and less like a nightmare my mind refused to abandon. I simply sat in a chair and stared at the disaster, the screens now flooded with flashing lights.
 

Maryland State Highway had called and I gave my best recollection of the events. I don’t remember what was said but I remember drifting off a lot. The guy from state highway whose name I don’t recall kept asking me if I was still there, beyond frustrated when he hung up. I didn’t want them to know too much. I didn’t want anyone to know that I could in some way be responsible for the mess on the Inner Loop.
 

A flock of fire trucks arrived and parked. Both sides of the Beltway were blocked, hindering my way home. It was a convenient excuse. I could have taken the Beltway through Maryland, but I couldn't quite feel my legs at the moment.

The morning crew descended and delivered reports efficiently, awake and snapping their fingers in excitement. They walked in to an electrifying news story. This sure beat the doldrums of a normal Thursday morning traffic delay bore fest. They smiled until the anchors and hosts came to them, and then erected facades featuring grave tones to hide their enthusiasm. “We are receiving reports of a very serious accident on the Inner Loop of the Beltway. Maryland state highway is on the scene.”

I would have been excited too. A major tractor trailer accident doesn’t happen every day. Of course, my interest was dampened by the very real possibility that I was responsible for killing a man.
 

Eric, the morning producer, rubbed his hand on the back of his head and listened intently. He hung up the phone and twirled around in his chair, addressing the room. “The driver of the truck is DRT, and is still pinned inside. They plan on opening the Outer Loop soon. They will be allowing one lane through on the Inner Loop but that could take a while. The cab is twisted around in the trees and it’s going to take a long time to get out of there.”
 

The anchors turned back around in their seats, scribbling notes. A few of the TV monitors showed the raw feed coming through, which is the live video from a reporter on the scene of breaking news. I stared at the screen that showed a beautiful woman with shocking red hair standing silently on camera. She was looking down, probably at a Blackberry, while they adjusted lights and other settings. She looked bored and annoyed with the wait.

The camera man zoomed in on the truck. The cab encircled a tree, the metal bent impossibly, as if the tree had been white hot and sliced through the steel with ease. It looked like a wet ball of firm flour had been shoved through a fork. A deep red pool was visible on the ground under the driver’s side door, getting deeper as the contents of the cab dripped down. It glistened greasy from the distant lights.
 

Eric pushed down on a communicator in front of him, “Chopper 3-2?”

A voice crackled from a speaker overhead. “Go ahead base.”
 

“Tell Fox 5 not to do a tight shot on the truck. You can see blood on the bottom of the cab and we don't need that.”
 

“10-4.”

Eric pushed the button down again. “How bad does it look from up there?”

“It looks bad, real bad.”

The blood. The twisted metal bent around the trees. It was like technology invaded the forest and the forest won. The driver was dead. The man I spoke to was dead, DRT, dead right there. Was the last thought through his head about me? Was his last thought that the guy on the phone never mentioned this disabled vehicle that I am so desperately trying to avoid? Was that what he was thinking as he died, either impaled or crushed or concussed or injured so severely that his blood, all of it, was now running down the carpet, the metal, the rubber, the glass, the upholstery, and into the glistening pool that was rapidly collecting under the cab of the truck.

The camera was still tight focused. I couldn't take my eyes off the blood that stained the cab. That blood, only a couple of hours ago, was in a person, a person who was living and breathing and healthy, going about its business, carrying oxygen from one place to the next like it always had, inside of a person, a real person, who I talked to, it had traveled through someone’s heart, a real person, a person with plans and errands and dreams for the future, but now the person and the blood had come to the same conclusion, and they were dripping out on the shoulder of the highway in a thick thatch of trees, together entwined with the metal, rubber, and glass that surrounded them, the manufactured cave that the driver worked in had been twisted and now was part of him, his body destroyed by four familiar walls that were now filled with the blood that he had taken for granted until only minutes ago.
 

I forced myself to stop before someone noticed I was sweating. Nothing could be done. I had forgotten to warn the driver of the danger ahead, and now I had to sit and watch the results of my sin of omission. I could have saved a life, maybe two. I could have said something. The guilt built up inside of me. It would be buried with all the other guilt that had come before it.
 

My mother’s disembodied voice echoed in my brain, “It’s all your fault Greg. Being good at nothing has led to this. You’re not just driving people away, now you’re actually killing them.”

The words hung true for me at that moment. I was staring at the screen but there was a layer of blur that separated me from the images while I thought about the words that had formed in my Mom’s disapproving, bitter tones. If the blood could talk, it would most likely agree with her.
 

A female voice above me called my name, “Greg?”
 

“Mom?”

The voice belonged to Jackie, one of the female morning TV anchors, who wore an extremely disturbed look that I am certain had just formed on her face. “Um…the outer loop is open. You can go home now.”
 

The information took a moment to sink in. “Oh. Well I might just sit here for-”

“Well, either way I need the chair you are sitting in please.” The smile she now had was much less genuine than the look from moments ago.
 

“Oh.”
 

Her hand was already on the armrest of the chair when I started getting up and Jackie whisked it out from under me. She rolled the chair to her terminal and set her purse on it. She sat back down in her own chair, popped in her in-ear monitor and stared at the camera with the fake smile.

“I guess I am gonna get going, then,” I said to the room. No one turned to acknowledge the noise. I walked to the garage, got in the car and pointed it toward the Beltway. Most of the sky was still dominated by twilight but the stars had disappeared, dawn was not far off. The faintest of blue and pink was spilling out from the horizon and staining the rest of the sky. The streetlights were still on for the moment.
 

I started to see brake lights right before the split for I-270. This was to be expected. The road had been closed for a long time and there was a waiting line to get through the newly opened lanes. I inched along, occasionally looking to the left, searching for the crash. Some of these delays were mostly likely due to what they call a ‘Gawker delay’ in the industry, and in this case, completely understandable. When a tractor trailer goes careening into trees, people do everything they can to get a glimpse of the carnage.
 

I looked to the left toward the median. After the overpass, I started seeing the lights and activity. I remember the smell of spilled gas from the collection of vehicles. I could also smell the burned rubber and various other car fluids that all mixed when an engine block and person are skewered. Heavy duty tow trucks hissed and pulled. The chainsaw sound of the jaws of life purred faintly through the trees. I watched policemen, firemen and the Maryland Highway people as my car crept by the scene. They stepped around winding cords and hoses and shouted orders to co-workers. The veterans carried casual countenances, the new recruits looked nauseated.
 
They all walked with heads shaking, knowing this grisly business would be their whole day.
 

The lights from the fire trucks and ambulances spun colorful, while the kleig lights from the TV crews were as bright as the sun. Combined, the rays leaked though the trees, throwing rungs of radiance onto the ground. Standing among the beams, I saw a Maryland State Highway worker, motionless on the dirt of the shoulder, his gloved hands covered his face as he hunched over. It looked like a new guy needing some air after witnessing his first fatal.
 

I decided to inch to the left, where the worker was standing. The least I could do was help. Try to make the best of a bad situation, make the worker feel better, maybe get some information from him and relay it back to the network.

“Hey,” I said, leaning out the window.
 

The state highway guy didn’t respond. He was now doubled over, his hands on his knees.
 

“Hey!” I persisted, “I am a traffic reporter.”
 

He was barely a foot from my driver’s side door. He looked up; the klieg lights were directly behind him, his face in shadow.
 

“I'm a traffic reporter. What’s the progress over there?”

The man spoke. His voice was soft, as if far away. It had a strange quality to it, like a tonality of both high and low pitches at the same time.

“You didn’t tell me,” the man said.
 

“I reported about it on the radio. I gave you guys all the information I had when you called and asked.”

The man leaned over and put his hands on my door. I finally noticed that he was not dressed like Maryland State Highway. He wore a pair of jeans and a white undershirt. He looked gaunt and emaciated, his jawline pockmarked with red spots that shone like beacons on his pale white face. He had a sharp nose with a thick mustache underneath it and his eyes were so bloodshot that they looked like stained glass. When he opened his mouth, his teeth were slicked in blood.
 

The man spoke in the horrible dual tone again. His voice was both screeching high and roaring low. His eyes were questioning and filled with pain.
 

“Greg, you didn’t tell me about the car.”

7

By some miracle I managed to convince the police that I had been horribly frightened by a bee in my car. I calmly explained that it had somehow gotten in, which is why I had launched into a near catatonic bout of screaming and soiled myself. I’m convinced that they let me go because they had so much clean up with the truck. I drove home with my car smelling like a septic tank and my undershorts rapidly chafing my ass.
 

It had been a rotten day. The shower was helping. I got a chance to wash off and comfort myself a bit in the warm water. I leaned forward and held myself under the jet, my scalp surrounded in uterine warmth.
 

The current matter of contention was the man standing on the side of the road. I was sure that this was a vivid manifestation of confusion and anxiety. This could no longer be ignored; it wasn’t just dreams anymore.
 

I pushed the button on the face of my air conditioner and it beeped as it shuddered to life. The angled vents vomited a cold breeze into the room. Two things were clear: this needed to be dealt with and it needed to be kept secret, because I wanted to make sure Bob didn’t have to think of me. If he knew his overnight guy was going crazy, I might be fired, and then I would be left to deal with the homeless shelter Fritos-scented situation.

I found a week old newspaper lying on the dresser in a heap, its pages curling and sponging the moisture in the air. I pinched up the pile of grimy information and threw it on the bed. Normally I would be going straight to bed but sleep wasn't possible when dead men yell at you from the side of a road.
 

I pushed the papers around the mattress. Support groups, looking for support groups. Anxiety support groups. I felt like I could handle that and it sounded like it might be free. I looked through the small white boxes filled with text as I ran a finger down the page, help starving children…volunteer bar-tend…learn about UNIX…volunteer bike tours….alcoholics seeking help…why didn't you tell me about the car…weekly anxiety and depression session...ah, yes, I thought. There it is.