My Bob Dole Period (Part I)

December 29th, 2003 Posted in Anecdotes, Blog Posts, Essays

It is Monday night. I get hit by a car.

I’d gone out for just a minute to pick up a few things. I’m waiting at the crosswalk of a busy main street in Toronto that I’ve crossed hundreds of times before. I am deep in thought about other things—my upcoming move, getting back to work after the holidays—and I see the light change, and for some reason I don’t notice that I’m not looking at the light across from me but to my right—the light telling oncoming traffic to come on down, the price is right to hit Pinkertons. For some reason I can’t even begin to fathom I step out into oncoming traffic.

I should state for the record that I’ve never ever done this before. I’m not so scatterbrained that I confuse lights regularly. I can’t even explain it—I was just reading a book, and preoccupied with other thoughts, and for some reason my brain gave me the “All systems go!” sign.

As I walk out, my brain decides that maybe it hadn’t thought out the previous statement—that something nagging was wrong—and sends a follow-up signal to check up on the first one. I look up and notice, for the first time, four lanes of furiously honking cars bearing down on me at full speed.

I run back to the curb as fast as I can, but as I’m being pulled from my thoughts back to reality I’m also getting the simultaneous message from my brain that, tragically, I am about to die. These cars are going quite fast and, though trying to brake, are simply too close. I’m going to get hit by a car and be killed.

The thought that goes through my head as the car hits me isn’t a sudden epiphany, or a bright flash of light, or even my whole life flashing before my eyes—it is simply blind panic and fear, and the knowledge that as I think this, I am dying.

I hit the hood of a braking car, bounce off of it, and land on my forearms in the alley. Briefly I am stunned—if I were Patrick Swayze in Ghost, this would be the point where I actually die but don’t realize I’m dead.

While I’m often told how much I resemble Swayze, tonight will sadly not be the night where I get my Ghost experience. I am jolted awake by car horns, and stand up out of the puddle bathed in mud and oil, waving the taxi cab that hit me through. I can’t imagine a court in the world that’d want to convict him, since I was standing out in the middle of the street during a red light like an idiot. I wobble a bit. My body is flooded to bursting with pain-killing endorphins, and I am tense like a jungle cat about to pounce. Actually, maybe I’m flattering myself a bit here. More aptly, I am tense like jungle cat with an intensely surprised look on its face, having just gotten hit by a taxi.

The only thing I remember thinking of, oddly, is the Dustin Hoffman character from Midnight Cowboy, and him banging on the taxi hood saying “I’m walkin’ here! I’m walkin’ here!” And me wishing he was there.

Some brave Samaritan actually comes up to ascertain if I’m alright. Miraculously… I am. I barely hurt at all. I am so emboldened, in fact, simply to be alive, that I almost skip home. I feel a bit achey here and there of course, but otherwise I’m fine. The fact that five British pints of adrenaline were released upon impact does not register with me as a contributing factor. All I know is I got hit by a car and stood back up from it.

Three hours later, of course, my “kind of achey” arm turns into a full-blown “this fucking hurts” arm. At midnight, I begin to debate going to the emergency room, which I realize will mean a six hour time investment and no sleep.