The Motorcyclist
It's curious how a momentary glimpse into the tragedy of another's life can make you reevaluate actions, relationships, and decisions in your own.
Tuesday night I left work at about 1:10am. As I was ending the 35-45 minute drive on which I embark twice daily, it suddenly dawned on me that in my absent-mindedness, I had accidentally thrown away my VERY expensive, PRESCRIPTION sunglasses in thinking that I was actually throwing out a half-empty can of Diet Dr. Pepper. Since I had scheduled myself to have the next few days off, I knew that any hope of recovery lie in beating the cleaning crew to the garbage can within the next few hours. So, while mentally kicking myself for my stupidity and fighting off the weariness and fatigue that was rapidly setting in, I got back in the truck and made the trek halfway across the metroplex for the third time that day.
At about the halfway point as I was flying down the highway, I noticed that I was fast approaching a large array of flashing lights. Thinking it was nothing more than the ever present nightly highway construction crews, I slowed my pace and began merging to the right. However, as I drew closer, it became apparent to me that this was much more than mere construction. The highway was littered in flares, and traffic was slow and backed up, something very unusual for 2:15am on Tuesday night/Wednesday morning.
My stomach began to churn as I approached the first piece of debris. It was obvious that what I was approaching was the scene of an accident. There was something about the silence of the scene that made me uneasy. There was no honking, no sirens, no music blaring from other cars - just yards and yards of flares and about a half dozen police cars accompanied by a fire truck.
And that's when I saw him.
His body was haphazardly covered by a white sheet with ever growing dark splotches. The sheet shielded his face and torso from all the wondering eyes of passing traffic, but it did nothing to cover his blue jean clad calves and the black Adidas with white stripes that he had donned before leaving his home that evening. It was the shoes that jolted me and made me look around for his vehicle. The shoes that reminded me of Edgar. The shoes that made me start to look frantically for the motorcycle. I can't even begin to describe the way in which my heart sank to my feet, outside of my body, as my eyes rested on the mangled pile of metal that had once been a motorcycle.
That was just a horrible coincidence, right? As I began to weep I could feel my chest contracting and struggling to gain control and force my lungs to open up to take a breath. Echoing my sentiments, rain began to drizzle, making it harder to focus on the task at hand. I chided myself for not holding it together, for not being stronger, and quickly wiped away the tears that were blurring my vision and compromising my ability to control the vehicle.
It dawned on me that in a fit of anger, in a strong-willed moment in which I had decided a month earlier that enough was enough and that I was cutting Edgar out of my life once and for all, I had deleted all of his contact information. I now had no way to reach him, no way to learn for certain if the unfortunate victim on the highway was the same man that had inspired so many emotions, most recently, frustration and anger, in me in the past. No way to know if this was in fact the end of his life, of our relationship, of any opportunity to make things right and rekindle our friendship, however dysfunctional it may have been.
As I bypassed the elevator and ran up the two flights of stairs to my desk, all thoughts of the sunglasses and my initial purpose for my trip had disappeared. I was now frantically looking for any place in which I may have stored his information, you know, just in case. As I ran through my Outlook Contacts it dawned on me that I had deleted him from there as well. While the only remaining coworker looked on in confused wonder, I leaned forward in my chair and hid my face in my hands, my body shaking in defeat. After submitting to the feelings of hopelessness that had been threatening to take over for the past half hour, it dawned on me that my old telephone bills were only a few clicks away. As I logged on to my service provider's website, I quickly thanked the progress of technology and I prayed that I would recognize his number in the sea of numbers that populated the seemingly endless pages of my previous billing statements.
There it was - an hour long call at about 3:30am on a Sunday morning a month earlier... who else would I have spoken to at that hour? It HAD to be his number. Not willing to wait a second longer, I anxiously punched the number into my phone.
Ring.... (Please answer...)
Ring.... (OMG, please, please answer...)
Ring... (You can't answer the phone when you're ---
"Hey, what's up?"
"Oh my God. Thank you SO much for answering. (Gasp for air) Thank you, just...thank you."
"Why what's up? Are you okay?"
"It was horrible... there was a fatality on the freeway... his jeans were blue and the black and white Adidas. The motorcycle... I thought it was yours."
"Nope, I'm still alive."
Awkward pause...
"Oh, well I'm sorry to wake you up."
"It's alright."
"Ok, bye."
"Bye."
I sat there dumbfounded. My heart was still beating abnormally fast, but the weight was gone. The dread had been lifted. For the second time, I sank back into my chair, this time allowing the wave of relief to wash over my being.
After explaining the situation to my coworker and settling in to search for my glasses (which, as it turned out, he found not in the garbage but rather in a hidden corner underneath the backseat of the truck), I began the long drive back to my house for the second time that night.
As I drove, my confusion grew. Where had the emotions come from? What did my reaction mean about my feelings for Edgar? Was I truly capable of cutting people completely out of my life? Why are we time and time again drawn to the individuals that cause us the most hurt, frustration and grief? And now, with that phone call, had I once again managed to stick my hand back into the fire that had burned me so many times before? Would the emotions from the thought of having lost him convince me that this time, the fire would not burn?
I'm not sure what my sentiments are right now - for now, the only thing that my mind can focus on is the knowledge that this person (friend? more?) for which I inevitably care about a great deal is not dead, and that in itself is a beautiful feeling.
Tuesday night I left work at about 1:10am. As I was ending the 35-45 minute drive on which I embark twice daily, it suddenly dawned on me that in my absent-mindedness, I had accidentally thrown away my VERY expensive, PRESCRIPTION sunglasses in thinking that I was actually throwing out a half-empty can of Diet Dr. Pepper. Since I had scheduled myself to have the next few days off, I knew that any hope of recovery lie in beating the cleaning crew to the garbage can within the next few hours. So, while mentally kicking myself for my stupidity and fighting off the weariness and fatigue that was rapidly setting in, I got back in the truck and made the trek halfway across the metroplex for the third time that day.
At about the halfway point as I was flying down the highway, I noticed that I was fast approaching a large array of flashing lights. Thinking it was nothing more than the ever present nightly highway construction crews, I slowed my pace and began merging to the right. However, as I drew closer, it became apparent to me that this was much more than mere construction. The highway was littered in flares, and traffic was slow and backed up, something very unusual for 2:15am on Tuesday night/Wednesday morning.
My stomach began to churn as I approached the first piece of debris. It was obvious that what I was approaching was the scene of an accident. There was something about the silence of the scene that made me uneasy. There was no honking, no sirens, no music blaring from other cars - just yards and yards of flares and about a half dozen police cars accompanied by a fire truck.
And that's when I saw him.
His body was haphazardly covered by a white sheet with ever growing dark splotches. The sheet shielded his face and torso from all the wondering eyes of passing traffic, but it did nothing to cover his blue jean clad calves and the black Adidas with white stripes that he had donned before leaving his home that evening. It was the shoes that jolted me and made me look around for his vehicle. The shoes that reminded me of Edgar. The shoes that made me start to look frantically for the motorcycle. I can't even begin to describe the way in which my heart sank to my feet, outside of my body, as my eyes rested on the mangled pile of metal that had once been a motorcycle.
That was just a horrible coincidence, right? As I began to weep I could feel my chest contracting and struggling to gain control and force my lungs to open up to take a breath. Echoing my sentiments, rain began to drizzle, making it harder to focus on the task at hand. I chided myself for not holding it together, for not being stronger, and quickly wiped away the tears that were blurring my vision and compromising my ability to control the vehicle.
It dawned on me that in a fit of anger, in a strong-willed moment in which I had decided a month earlier that enough was enough and that I was cutting Edgar out of my life once and for all, I had deleted all of his contact information. I now had no way to reach him, no way to learn for certain if the unfortunate victim on the highway was the same man that had inspired so many emotions, most recently, frustration and anger, in me in the past. No way to know if this was in fact the end of his life, of our relationship, of any opportunity to make things right and rekindle our friendship, however dysfunctional it may have been.
As I bypassed the elevator and ran up the two flights of stairs to my desk, all thoughts of the sunglasses and my initial purpose for my trip had disappeared. I was now frantically looking for any place in which I may have stored his information, you know, just in case. As I ran through my Outlook Contacts it dawned on me that I had deleted him from there as well. While the only remaining coworker looked on in confused wonder, I leaned forward in my chair and hid my face in my hands, my body shaking in defeat. After submitting to the feelings of hopelessness that had been threatening to take over for the past half hour, it dawned on me that my old telephone bills were only a few clicks away. As I logged on to my service provider's website, I quickly thanked the progress of technology and I prayed that I would recognize his number in the sea of numbers that populated the seemingly endless pages of my previous billing statements.
There it was - an hour long call at about 3:30am on a Sunday morning a month earlier... who else would I have spoken to at that hour? It HAD to be his number. Not willing to wait a second longer, I anxiously punched the number into my phone.
Ring.... (Please answer...)
Ring.... (OMG, please, please answer...)
Ring... (You can't answer the phone when you're ---
"Hey, what's up?"
"Oh my God. Thank you SO much for answering. (Gasp for air) Thank you, just...thank you."
"Why what's up? Are you okay?"
"It was horrible... there was a fatality on the freeway... his jeans were blue and the black and white Adidas. The motorcycle... I thought it was yours."
"Nope, I'm still alive."
Awkward pause...
"Oh, well I'm sorry to wake you up."
"It's alright."
"Ok, bye."
"Bye."
I sat there dumbfounded. My heart was still beating abnormally fast, but the weight was gone. The dread had been lifted. For the second time, I sank back into my chair, this time allowing the wave of relief to wash over my being.
After explaining the situation to my coworker and settling in to search for my glasses (which, as it turned out, he found not in the garbage but rather in a hidden corner underneath the backseat of the truck), I began the long drive back to my house for the second time that night.
As I drove, my confusion grew. Where had the emotions come from? What did my reaction mean about my feelings for Edgar? Was I truly capable of cutting people completely out of my life? Why are we time and time again drawn to the individuals that cause us the most hurt, frustration and grief? And now, with that phone call, had I once again managed to stick my hand back into the fire that had burned me so many times before? Would the emotions from the thought of having lost him convince me that this time, the fire would not burn?
I'm not sure what my sentiments are right now - for now, the only thing that my mind can focus on is the knowledge that this person (friend? more?) for which I inevitably care about a great deal is not dead, and that in itself is a beautiful feeling.