A tragedy on Thanksgiving eve.
Nov. 23rd, 2017 08:41 amAround 7:30pm or so, Omaha worried that there was a helicopter overhead just to the northwest of us, hovering, green and red lights blinking on its undercarriage. I said it looked like it hovered over the grocer's, and we agreed that since she needed a few extra ingredients for tomorrow's dinner I should go to the grocer's and see if I could see anything.
I saw a dead man.
The main arterial road that runs north-south through my town, the aptly named 1st Avenue, which remarkably lines up almost perfectly with the 1st Avenue in Seattle thirteen miles to the north, has a quarter-mile stretch with almost no street lights, no controlled intersections, and rolling terrain. It's a broad, four-plus-one street that in our subarctic winters gets as dark as the inside of a boot. On the east side of this stretch are a series of cheap apartment complexes— cheap because they're the last construction allowed before the Seattle/Tacoma Airport complex's safety zone, so they get all the airport noise. On the west side of the stretch are a few small businesses: A hardware store, a Thai restaurant, a hair salon, and a fairly skeevy dive bar.
Last night a man leaving the dive bar tried to cross this dark, broad boulevard. An older woman with older eyes, driving an older BMW with older lights, didn't see him until she hit him, and he hit her windshield.
The road that leads from my home to the grocer's was open, but the intersection onto 1st Avenue was closed. I parked at the grocer and walked to the bar, a block away. A crowd was watching, just outside the yellow police tape, and there in front of us was the whole scene.
There was the body, lying on the ground, a white sheet over it. Under the bright, temporary crime scene investigation lights I could see blood stains on it. Fifteen feet away the faded blue, boxy sedan, its windshield cracked, sat motionless, pointed away from the victim, skid marks on the road showing where she'd hit the brakes.
I spoke with some of the people there, and they all pretty much agreed on the scenario. People cross that stretch there all the time; they can't be bothered to walk the two blocks to the controlled intersection, then walk back two blocks to get to small businesses. Especially not after a night of drinking, possibly heavy drinking— after all, it's not as if many people are going to work tomorrow.
On the eve of Thanksgiving, I saw a dead man. Two families, the victim's and the driver's, will spend the holiday dealing with the aftermath of one more banal, pedestrian fatality.
I went home and told Omaha what I'd seen. We continued cooking. She made dessert, and I manhandled the turkey as her tendinitis is troubling her. It all seemed so ordinary. So safe. I hope it remains so.
I saw a dead man.
The main arterial road that runs north-south through my town, the aptly named 1st Avenue, which remarkably lines up almost perfectly with the 1st Avenue in Seattle thirteen miles to the north, has a quarter-mile stretch with almost no street lights, no controlled intersections, and rolling terrain. It's a broad, four-plus-one street that in our subarctic winters gets as dark as the inside of a boot. On the east side of this stretch are a series of cheap apartment complexes— cheap because they're the last construction allowed before the Seattle/Tacoma Airport complex's safety zone, so they get all the airport noise. On the west side of the stretch are a few small businesses: A hardware store, a Thai restaurant, a hair salon, and a fairly skeevy dive bar.
Last night a man leaving the dive bar tried to cross this dark, broad boulevard. An older woman with older eyes, driving an older BMW with older lights, didn't see him until she hit him, and he hit her windshield.
The road that leads from my home to the grocer's was open, but the intersection onto 1st Avenue was closed. I parked at the grocer and walked to the bar, a block away. A crowd was watching, just outside the yellow police tape, and there in front of us was the whole scene.
There was the body, lying on the ground, a white sheet over it. Under the bright, temporary crime scene investigation lights I could see blood stains on it. Fifteen feet away the faded blue, boxy sedan, its windshield cracked, sat motionless, pointed away from the victim, skid marks on the road showing where she'd hit the brakes.
I spoke with some of the people there, and they all pretty much agreed on the scenario. People cross that stretch there all the time; they can't be bothered to walk the two blocks to the controlled intersection, then walk back two blocks to get to small businesses. Especially not after a night of drinking, possibly heavy drinking— after all, it's not as if many people are going to work tomorrow.
On the eve of Thanksgiving, I saw a dead man. Two families, the victim's and the driver's, will spend the holiday dealing with the aftermath of one more banal, pedestrian fatality.
I went home and told Omaha what I'd seen. We continued cooking. She made dessert, and I manhandled the turkey as her tendinitis is troubling her. It all seemed so ordinary. So safe. I hope it remains so.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}