I tell you man, you should have been there. When we were roaring, still joyous after two and a half pitchers, after the waitress stared at us with the “I know what you guys are thinking” glance. When we were joyously floating on air, downward over the hill, heading towards bottom, comfort, blankets, wine, and fall asleep drunk conversation. We even looked at each other; amazed at how much we had gotten away with, how far we had taken this. We were just about to laugh when I saw the Isuzu trooper, cowering in the shadows, stumbling at the starting gate.

For a moment I was still laughing, I think it caught me in mid breath. I think I was laughing when I heard my friend slip, just a slight hesitation, just a drop in tone. I think I was still thinking about the glass of wine waiting for me at home. My cat, I was still thinking about petting the goddamn cat, when the intoxicant level in my brain dropped, and I felt the entire west wing of my peripheries violently swing left, snap back right, too fast for eyes to follow locked on the Trooper’s side door.

The nanosecond of hope that at the last second we’d cut to commercial gone the moment I heard “oh shit” come from the left hand side, not attached to a voice, just the sudden implosion, the swirling eye of sound we were in as our car spinning, the prize fighter slipping the punch to the little colt, spinning around as bestial carnival sounds emanate from our supports as we dance around the SW 45th street sign. The Trooper now attached to our green welterweight, I hear Hub get out, “Are you Ok?” he asks two and a half times “Huh?” I manage to bring up, swishing my glass–blood wig awake. As he slumber steps towards the Trooper, our truck is losing its grip with each step, eventually detaching from the Isuzu, hypnotically rolling down the hill.

We are on a hill, I don’t realize this until the waves of shock wash over me, allowing me to see the smeared rouge lights introducing two way traffic, churning on in a cauldron of a highway despite my increased speed as I descend downward, belted to the passenger seat.

As I’ve dreamed of exactly this scenario, I rehearse and wait for space to perform my seventy-five mile an hour parallel parking job. Arms outstretched drag the steering wheel left, right, blurs of trees by my face, the ride over the curb, the feeling that I’ve been shaken awake by my father, slapped as I sleep having to decide on which side of the tree to hit, left as I’ve stopped and the cycle of momentum reverses and stops, as my next thoughts are on breath, and ache.

Walking out of the truck, I slam the door; proud of the heroic way my survival instinct displayed itself. Hands locked into a claw, resting among the glass shards and blood chunks walking uphill the martyr greets his people, rushing towards him, arms flailing, sound muted, like in those Bruce Willis movies.

And what I remember most from my journey up the hill towards the first impact zone was an anonymous call from the outer layer of reality I was no longer a participant in. “Hey man, thanks for not hitting my car.