Crossing the stret

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Humor  |  House: Booksie Classic
A child is nearly hit by a car and now has deal with the consequences

Submitted: June 16, 2009

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Submitted: June 16, 2009

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crossing the street (some elements of the story have been embellished for entertainment purposes)

One of my earliest memories is of me being 5 yrs old and of watching as my sister crossed the street to go a neighborhood friends house then running back to my house pushing the door open and quickly shouting in “I’m going over Gartner’s house with Julie ok?”. Knowing that if I explained that Julie was already across the street and then also asking either of my parents to come outside and actually cross me would have resulted in me being shot down immediately. After all these were the people who would yell from their couch for me to come home from halfway down the block to turn the channel on the TV set rather then standing up taking the3 steps to reach the box themselves. A quick “ok” and I was off like a flash I walked down the driveway, I watched as a car went by thinking it was safe then darting out into the street.

Two seconds later an assemblage of Screeching tires the faint smell of burning brakes and rubber and the blast of a horn as a woman in a Silver Olds ninety eight stopped just inches from mowing me down. Then the screaming started, as the women, most likely in her forties started yelling that I could have been killed which in only mili- seconds the yelling multiplied like some kind of weird mad science experiment gone wrong, most recognizable was the ear drum shatteringshrieking by my mother then the lower yet somehow louder gripingby my father. As my parents reached me, I was frozen like a deer caught in a zillion watt headlight, first the quick assessment of my health which was all to brief, then the inevitable shaking me as I was being asked what the hell is wrong with me? Then asked me if I had an on going bout with a mental disability which had permanently and indiscriminately resulted in my brains turning into POOP and then the statement “you could given that old woman a heart attack“. Which seemed a bit ironic considering my pulse rate was at warp speed. Then came the a brief but very effective comment from the driver” You need to keep a better eye on your kids” which was more thanlikely a verbal counter punch to the “old lady” remark.

Even at the tender age of 5 I had become in tune with my surroundings enough to know, that little sentence was going to make the rest of my night a living hell. That and the fact that at least 20 of my neighbors and their kids were now outside watching this event unfold only made things worse. By this time the seconds of intense adrenalin driven panic and ardent relief quickly faded. And had unequivocally turned their fear for their youngest child being grievously hurt to embarrassment and anger. And when my father bellowed “Julie, home, now“. I knew we were all in for a special night.

I often thought my father had missed his true calling of being a interrogator for some secret agency for the government, or perhaps Inquisitor General in a medieval Papal court. Mainly because after a bombardment of insults mixed with threats and impossible to answer questions, you were scared so shitless you would confess to the Lindurgh kidnapping if it would just end the tribunal. Even at 5 years old I knew I had to at least give an alternative reason for my obtuse near death experience that was contrast to his insistence that it stemmed from my perennial retardation which seemed to be contagious between myself and my siblings, and not hereditary , well at least on his side of the family. After what was probably only minutes but what to my 5 year old self seemed a millennium of parental rebuke, with all the courage I could muster I threw caution to the wind. “she didn’t have her lights on” I blurted out “and “she was going way to fast , I couldn’t see her”. Silence echoed in the three bedroom bungalow.

My mother heroically then saw her chance to end the upcoming hours of pointless and brutal prosecution by deflecting the blame to a nameless elderly stranger rather than her timid young offspring that had already learned his lesson and wouldn’t benefit from another 2 hours of ruthless cross examination that would make the Nuremburg defendants time on the stand seem like a walk in the park. “That old bitch should have had her lights on and she had to be speeding for her tires to squeal that far!”. asserted my mother. Once again SILENCE.

I stood there almost statue like, imprudently thinking if I am completely still I am less likely to be targeted as prey like a mouse in the field when it notices an eagle circling overhead (a technique which worked as well in my house as it does for those rodents currently being digested). Finally my father spoke again in a completely different tone of voice “People like that is why your not allowed to cross the street by yourself”.

Minutes later my dad had offered me his sleeve to dry my tears, in retrospect this recurrent familiar transaction of my childhood ceremoniously acted as a moment of closure to whatever indiscretion had transpired it and would end with me tucked next to him safe from the rest world with his arm around me. Then he would utter those words that assured me that all had been forgiven. “Hey buddy, get up and change the channel for me, OK”


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