A Man Dies in a Car

Somewhat true story, for the most part, except the final way it ends. I would say the thought of death stuck with me, and I was not surprised by the death of the driver

A Man Dies in a Car

 

            Just as I squatted down to lift the thirty-pound dumbbells off the carpet of my apartment, fueled by a full minute of psyching my self up for the set, a loud crash breached the walls.  It came from outside, no more than 20 yards away.  The authentic sound of a real-life crash, which could not be imitated through expensive speakers designed to accentuate modern-day action flicks, resounded with the harsh shattering of broken glass and obliterated bumpers.  With all hope of pulling off twelve reps without pausing diminished, I quickly dropped the dumbbells (undeniably conscious of not destroying the floor of the apartment) and peered out the tiny kitchen’s tiny window.  I couldn’t see much and as I peered to the right where the sounds of the crash had come from.  I hesitated for a moment, then decided to step outside.

            Immediately upon stepping onto the staircase that led from my second floor to the street below, I saw a strange sight: in the parking spaces between the apartment buildings, a boxy car had crashed into two parked cars.  Bumpers were torn off, glass was shattered across the asphalt, four spectators had already gathered around, and an ominous fluid was leaking from the boxy, dark blue vehicle that had collided with the parked ones.  Those at the scene were in shock, shouting to others to call 911 while everyone seemed to hesitate to do anything.  I trotted quickly down the stairs and walked over, still unsure of what had occurred.  Upon closer inspection, the car that had collided into the parked one was filled with one occupant: an elderly man, about sixty years old, who appeared to be sleeping with his head back against the headrest and his mouth hanging open.  Obviously, he was not asleep.

            This was a strange moment for me.  My apartment had come to symbolize something special over the past two months.  It was a symbol of life, of progress, of moving forward.  It was a signpost indicator of my successful small business, of getting passed the dependence I had developed with my parents for so many years.  It was progress, moving forward…But here before me, in the blink of an eye, in the brief moments between motivating my self to lift a dumbbell and actually bending down to do it, someone had…I think someone had just died.

            Cold, motionless, seemingly stiff as a piece of wood…the old man in the car looked as if all of the life had been drained from him…literally as if the blood had drained from his skin, which could only be seen where it protruded from his humble clothing: a simple t-shirt, jeans, a withered, brown belt, and an old pair of brown shoes that did not require lacing.  It was pitiable, for me at that moment, to see those shoes.  One of them was not on, for some reason.  He’s an old man and probably bought that kind of shoe without the laces in order to make it easier for him, to avoid having to stay bent over for long.  The top of his head was bald.  Thinning gray hair struggled desperately to maintain it self behind his hears.  It was all so pitiable…all so pathetic and sad…and all so real…

            There was no make up, no sugar-coating, no beating around the bush…it was there, it was death, it was reality.  Suddenly, all of the bullshit that defined my life, all of the nonsense that had come to define me as an individual�"the apartment, the muscles, the money, the hobbies�"they all suddenly became irrelevant.  It was me…and there was death.  There were other living beings around, but they were consumed by the sight of death as fear and anxiety motivated shouts and yells.  It was as if the stability that maintained everyday life was gone.  The parking lot lost its practical meaning�"it was now a cemetery for a dead man no one seemed to know.  The car was not a car�"it was a destroyed coffin.  The air was not a breath of life, but a reminder of the ticking time bomb that was everybody’s mortality.

            What ensued thereafter is irrelevant in this story (the failed efforts of untrained apartment members to apply CPR, frantic calls to 911, hiding children from the sight of the one thing we are all forced to see for ourselves, etc).  All that matters, I think, is that after about twenty minutes of watching I turned around and walked slowly back up the stairs to my apartment.  I opened the door, closed it behind me, and stared at the dumbbells.  Although I had some brief thoughts about the dead man as I approached the weights, I think the most important thing to mention is that I continued lifting the dumbbells.