Collateral Damage

by James Bird

There was no Answer

  Sam Manual was driving down route 128 when he saw the emergency vehicles roaring down the turnpike. Normally he would give this a brief rubberneck and continue on home. Considering the times, he decided to make sure and picked up his cell phone and punched in the code to dispatch.

  “Yes Mr. Manual” it was Estelle, his second shift dispatcher, recognizing Sam's number on caller ID.

  “What's all the commotion on the turnpike?”

  “Multi-car accident, according to the scanner”.

  “We got anybody out there?”

  “Number two, two, fourteen sir. Fred Teller.”

  An electric gush of heat raced through Sam's stomach. Fred had been with Anytime Boulder Cab since the beginning. He was a vet that Sam had served with for the best five years of their young lives. They were at the 1983 suicide bombing of the Marines barracks in Beirut. They survived at least physically, 243 others were less fortunate. That explosion started a chain of events that reverberated around the world. Fred had pulled Sam out of the rubble despite being shot in the leg. Sam knew something about Fred that the Marine Corps and FBI did not. After their discharge a while later, Sam lost touch with Fred until one day twelve year later he got a call from a case worker at a Pittsburgh VA Hospital. Sure, he could give his old Marine buddy a job and set him up a place to live quietly. Sam had just bought a limousine business that ran from the airport and special events and needed someone he could trust to start a local cab service. Boulder Colorado was a great place to keep away from the screams of the five o'clock news and maybe the screams from one horrible night. He put Fred in his first cab. His counselor at the hospital had warned to keep an eye on his moods and make sure he stays on his medication.

  “Is he all…?”

  “Yes sir, I think. I talked to him when I heard. He was on airport duty. He sounded a little excited for him. He said he was stuck in the back up.” Estelle cut in.

  “OK. Get him a call back and tell. Never mind I'll call him.” Sam disconnected and began dialing Fred's number. Fred had been hit by what happened in New York and Arlington. Every time something like this happens, Fred goes into a blue place in his mind. He can still function but it as if he were a robot running low on batteries. He spent more time shut up in his room instead of the garage with the other drivers. Sam usually gives Fred time off when he gets like that.

  Recently, Fred seemed to be coming out of his funk he Sam let him back into a cab.

  There was no answer.

  “I’ll drop in and see him tonight.”

  Manicured Man

  I woke stiffly the next morning. My housemate had already left and I had planned to work at home. I rose and showered, my fingers finding the sore soft spot behind my left ear. While toweling I notice in the mirror a few bruises on my shoulder and legs, little purple reminders of a different day.

  I dressed solemnly remembering little clutches of the prior unpleasantness. I decided rather impulsively to walk to a café near the house. I hiked four blocks down the path along Harvard gulch to the hospital and bought a paper then continued the block down to the café. The gulch was dust bowl dry and the tress had lost most of their leaves. I sat down at a table outside. It was a warm day, no wind; the café faced east warming the terrace. Across the street are a gas station and a liquor store, which sat next to a fine Italian restaurant. I ordered a large coffee and settled in. Shortly, a fortyish man in dark business suit, blue shirt, and brightly stripped red and yellow tie sat down at a table nearby. He had gold cuff links and tie bar. He placed a cellular phone down on the table and hung his coat on the seat back. He was meticulously manicured and too damn neat to be trusted. Obviously a salesman. A noble enterprise for those so inclined. Engagement with the salesman was imminent I was regrettably sure.

  I sighed and unfolded the paper. Page 1, top of the fold: “Deadly Chain Reaction, Turnpike Tragedy” screamed the headline. I exhaled a short breath not sure if I was ready to read someone else’s account in a whorish attempt to sell newspapers. The picture, black, white and fuzzy, was from an unfamiliar angle. I read or skimmed the front-page paragraphs. What, where and when were adequately covered and I gathered no new knowledge. I was after who, why and how. It is always with trepidation that one reads in the newspaper’s accounts of events that one has intimate knowledge. Every other sentence finds oneself punctuating the journalist’s statements with “No, No, NO! That’s not right. No that’s not right at all, awww damn… get it right for god’s sake!” Like reading an obituary of a friend. Stark facts about schools, jobs, family and where the memorial service will be held. Some have lifeless portraits from a year book or ID card. They present very little of the human behind the picture.

  “Damn fine day ain’t it?” the too neat and manicured man said with a giggling smile. Non-morning types tend to deeply resent cheeriness particularly if one had been tossed around in a back of a bus the day before and was reading about in the morning post.

  “Umm mmm,” not looking up I said, noting that six had perished including a police officer, seventeen were injured, two seriously, and twenty-four vehicles were involved. As I read the names of the dead, I felt an odd sense of connectivity to them. It was as if I should call their families and attend their funerals. Say things like, “They died bravely” or “It was not an unsuccessful life.” I read about the prisoners and the gun fight. Then I read in horror one was still at large. My heart sank to the floor. In all the confusion the one they believe shot the cop dead was on the run and extremely dangerous. I looked at his picture.

  “Say, you wouldn’t work at Porter Hospital would you?” the manicured man broke through my hazy grief.

  “Nope”, I flipped to page 28A.

  “There is a state wide manhunt for the escaped prisoner but so far we have not turned up any leads. We believe him to be in the area. He is armed and extremely dangerous. I will provide more details when I get them.

  It is still under investigation. There does not appear to be drugs or alcohol related incident although the driver did register an insignificant level, well below the impaired limit. I don't have the number right here but it was not enough to bring any type of charge,” Said Sara Mackenzie spokesperson for the Boulder County Sheriff’s Offices.

  Manicured man’s cell phone rang, “Hello…” he said.

  I continued scanning the article.

  “It appears that the driver of the vehicle lost control while attempting to pass.” said Sarah Mackenzie the Boulder County Seffriff’s Office spokesperson, “But it is still all under investigation. We do know that he was driving at an excessive rate and probably a little out of control to begin with. Witnesses said that the car driven by a Michael Gonthier of Boulder appeared to have something go wrong. He veered hard to the left and slammed into the cement barrier between the north and southbound lanes. His car, a late model Pontiac Firebird then cut back across the rush hour traffic causing the chain reaction accident.

  “Normally you would see something like this during a snow and ice storm. But those situations usually do not involved fatalities because everyone's slowed down anyway, because of the conditions. This was much different because the weather was nice. I think this traffic was moving at the speed limit when the driver lost control. Everyone was going that much faster. Nobody had time to get out of the way. This was a very bad scene,” Mackenzie said.

  Manicured man began speaking into his phone, “Yeah, well tell Marsha I can’t make the two. I got a long meeting at Porter this morning and I can’t make the Springs by two. Be a dear and re-schedule me. …No, no… I’ll call …yeah… OK… yeah that’s fine. You’re a real champ sweetie, I’ll buy ya’ lunch…”

  I continued read trying to ignore manicured man.

  “Preliminary reports suggest that the Gonthier's car suffered a mechanical failure forcing the speeding car across the traffic. Gonthier and a passenger were both held overnight at Swedish Hospital for observation. Both are expected to fully recov
er. Charges have yet to be filled.

  “I think this is an entirely unfortunate incident” said Mackenzie, “six people are dead including Office Gregory Tanner, many are hurt and we had to destro...

  “Say you got the time there, I don’t think, wait… Has the time changed yet has…have we switched to daylight savings time?” Manicured man said to me.

  “You mean standard time.” I said.

  “Yeah”

  “No, not yet,” I said looking at my watch, “It’s a quarter to nine.”

  “Well OK. I got an hour to kill.”

  I was not pleased at all to hear this remark.

  “Say that’s about that big wreck out on the turnpike ain’t it?” manicured man asked, glancing at the fuzzy front-page picture of my yesterday evening.

  I drew in a long breath. “Yep, bad thing.” I paused, a patrol car passed. “I was… I was in a bus on the turnpike when it happened. I was in it”. It took all I could to muster a recant to the awfulness to my housemate the night before, getting the story out with the artificial assistance of several strong drinks. Now I was faced telling this tail to a stranger that I was sure should be hauled away on some type of public geek charge, if there was that sort of thing.

  “No shit sport! Wow. My supplier said it was a couple of drunk kids out hooting it up. Ran off the road and smacked a bunch of people. You were in it huh? Wow.”

  The caffeine took its first bite, I suddenly got the urge that I should roll up my paper and wop manicured man on the nose like some mongrel. The tinkling ring of his cell phone saved Manicured man from a vicious whopping.

  “Hello. Yeah Hi there babe… I…”

  I turned back to the paper.

  “Michael Gonthier Sr., the driver's father said that his son and Anthony Timmer, the passenger, were good boys, did well in school, enlisted in the Marine Corps. “They were enlisting to serve because it was right a call to duty. I talked to Michael tonight, he said that something went wrong and the car got away from him. He's very upset.”

  The spokesperson for Swedish, said Timmer is being held for observation and Gonthier is heavily sedated. I think the driver of the car is quite a bit dazed. They found him about a hundred yards from the car in a state of shock.

  Most of the injured were taken to local hospitals and released. Two in critical condition remain at Boulder County.”

  Officer Tanner was killed during a alltercation with prisoners whon manged to escape the wreck. He left a wife and two children. The family has asked for privacy.

  Most of the prisoners surrendered immediately. One was killed and five more injured none critically. I cannot comment further, it is still under investigation. Mackenzie said.

  There was a picture of the Officer Tanner at the left corner of the article. Manicured man broke in, “Hey! So you were in that pile up! No goddamn way. Whew, must been something on that bus.”

  “No, not really. Just bounced around a bit. That’s all.” I stared at the page 28A pictures. There were five different shots. The one that caught my eye was taken from beyond the sideways Sports Vehicle, towards the bus. You could make out DENVER EXPRESS or at least part of it. On the ground, a few feet away from the front of the bus and slightly behind the Sports truck lay a lump, covered with a light blue colored blanket. I started clutching the tablecloth, seeing in my mind the gold heart, swinging slowly. A hard pang it the pit of my stomach hit like an uncooked potato.

  Manicured man said, “Goddamn drunk bastards. Rotten kids. Bunch of spoiled brats that don’t know what they got. Just out for a … sheeesh…” He was looking at his own paper now, apparently looking at the photos and reading only the captions. I looked at his too neat features. His black perfectly slicked hair, his pressed suit and bright gold watch and cuff links, and imagined his “girl” on the other end of his plastic phone. His shiny black wing tip shoes and electronic day timer, all his gear and all his spit and polish was a prop for a walking catalog of medical supplies and phony phrases. I looked across at the gas station. Some pretty, petite woman next to a large sport truck was struggling with the fuel hose. An attendant I knew was trotting out to help. I thought of Bonnie.

  Manicured man looked up from the pictorial section and said, “You know we outta just send all these boys off the some reform school, make them join up or something. Like they do in Israel and Europe. Teach them some respect. These little shits gotta learn that …”

  “Hey” I was weary. My head was hurting a tingling ran down my left leg. “You know.” I dropped my paper, took a sip of coffee and stood. My foot was numb. I threw a dollar down on the table. Manicured man’s phone began tinkling.

  “Listen” I said. “It ain’t them boy’s fault. Not really. I mean, read the story.” Gesturing towards Manicured man's paper.

  “What day ya mean?” Manicured man looking up, phone at the ready for answering, mouth open, eyes quizzical.

  “It’s the war”.