I was in an accident yesterday on my scooter on the way to work. I’m still banged up pretty well. This morning, I’m sore all over as I imagined I would be.

Here’s what happened. And this is going to be long because, well… it was a long day.

The accident.

Every day that I drive my scooter around town, I leave my place about three to five minutes before my shift starts. Depending on how together I am. It’s three minutes in heavy traffic to drive the eight-block commute to work. So I’m a block away from work yesterday (with two minutes to spare!!), driving north on Washington and about to cross through the intersection of 13th. I’m going 35mph. I’m wearing clothes for work: shorts, sneakers, and a polo shirt. And my nice new expensive sunglasses.

A silver car heading south on Washington takes a speeding left on 13th in front of me as I am crossing the same intersection. There wasn’t enough time for her to make a left in front of me. Not even a speeding left.

I was in the right hand lane of the two going north. I slammed on my brakes and cut to the left to avoid hitting the side of her car. I went down. Missed her car. I don’t know how I went down. I don’t know how I missed her car. I don’t know what happened exactly. I thought I hit my head, but apparently, I didn’t. I just hit the asphalt hard with every other part of my body. Luckily, there were no cars behind me. I would realize this a few moments later, after being sprawled out underneath the scooter in the road and realizing I hadn’t been run over.

I screamed a litany of profanites. Mostly “motherfucker” over and over. I think out of pain mostly. Some out of frustration, I’m sure. I forced myself to get up to make sure I could do that. I could. My shoulder was hurting. My knee was hurting. My hands were hurting. My ankle. My elbow. I don’t think my head was hurting. I remember the sunglasses coming off my head. I remember picking them up and tossing them at the curb where I was walking to sit down.

I remember looking over and seeing the silver car stopped in the street on 13th. Some people (two, three, four?) came to my aid before I made it to the curb. They rush to get me seated in the shade. I say something about needing to call work and tell them I’ll be late. I think briefly about who will cover deliveries. That thought is less important than calling for help, the people tell me. Someone calls either the police or the paramedics while I’m sitting there dealing with this pain. I’m scraped to hell and back but I think I’m okay. Probably. Everything hurts. Blood on my leg. My shorts. My ankle. My elbow. How did I avoid hitting my head? I keep thinking I did.

People are stopping, talking. I look up and see scooter with front wheel pointing south, opposite the direction I was traveling. The seat had been knocked open and my raincoat which was in the underseat compartment, sits partially on the street. I’m unaware at the moment that oil and gas from the scooter is leaking out onto the jacket and pavement. I’m just looking at scooter. Down.

The woman driving the silver car… she drove off. Left the accident. One of the good samaritans at the scene relayed this information to me. And then he went, on foot, and followed the car to where it parked (parking garage at 13th and Collins) and got the license plate. The woman had left the car by that point.

An older fellow stayed with me until the police arrived. He was wearing yellow. And sunglasses. He told me that it was things like this that made him stop driving his motorcycle down here. I picture his motorcycle being a well-worn Harley. I don’t know if I thanked him properly. He seemed to just disappear. Thank you, stranger, for your kindness. Thank you, deeply.

The police came, the paramedics arrived shortly thereafter. They checked that I could move everything. Checked my head. Asked me some basic questions to make sure I knew who and where I was. What’s your name? What city is this? What year is it? I was fine, it seemed. Just bloodied up. They applied something or other to my visible wounds. “This might sting.”

I remember it not stinging.

The policeman that initially arrived on the scene was called to my accident from another crime scene and so we were waiting for another officer to come and take over. I wasn’t really waiting so much as just sitting there, trying to sort out what just happened. Trying to conquer the pain I was feeling. Trying to sort out how this person just drove off.

I asked the officer if I should get my scooter out of the street. He seemed indifferent. I walk over and wrestle to lift it off the ground, everything hurting. That’s when I notice the gas. And the turn signal cap broken off. I’m not focusing much on damage. I’m just struggling to get the scooter to the curb.

The other officer soon arrives. The guy who tracked down the car, gave the license plate number to the officer. He’s using the NATO phonetic alphabet: “Alpha Echo Charlie…” The officer is repeating it back. Questions for the witness from the officer. The fellow begins to leave, and I thank him profusely for his kindness. (I’m more aware of my surroundings at this point).

The officer asks if I want to file a report. I say that it would probably be good if I did. He begins to take my information. He realizes that our automobiles didn’t make contact. There’s nothing to file a report on. He could write her a ticket if she were there, but she wasn’t. And there is no telling who was driving the car.

And that was that. He followed me over to the scooter to see if I could start it. After a few tries, I could. I think about the oil and gas. Raincoat ruined.

I get back on the scooter. Sore. Bloodied. And I’m just about to drive to work. And then a bright ray of sunshine comes pouring through. A mother, with her child maybe 4 or 5 years old shyly hiding behind her, says, “My son saw you get hurt and wanted to give you this.” She hands me a small plastic-wrapped peppermint candy. The ones that you get after a dinner at a TGIF’s or somewhere similar. The ones that sit in a bowl as you exit the restaurant. Or that come with the check. She handed it to me and it might as well have been a Fabergé egg. It was such a pure and innocent act. The decency of humanity. Albeit in a small child. But still. I nearly cried for joy.

I got on my scooter and drove the remaining block to work.

The workday

When I got to work, the girl who I had talked to on the phone to pass along that I had been in an accident and would be late came up to me, very concerned. Asked what happened. A moment later, Olivier, the owner, begins to walk toward me and he’s yelling:

“If you show up late once more, I’m going to fire you! I don’t care if you’ve been in an accident!”

Everyone, customers and employees, can hear him yell at me. He passes by me on the way to the back. I laugh. My chest hurts from laughing. Not from laughing hard. Just from laughing. I wonder if I fractured a rib. No, it doesn’t feel like that kind of pain. He then asks more seriously if I’m okay. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

A few minutes of decompressing at work, and someone up front yells for a delivery. Time to get back on scooter. I’m seriously aching, it’s difficult to move, but I can work so I’m going to. And if I didn’t, it would leave them in a tight spot.

I move at a slightly slower pace all day. At some point, I think I’m going to pass out. Should’ve eaten. I don’t stretch my left arm out for most of the day because everything on my left side hurts too much. Lifting anything is cumbersome and painful.

For the first couple of hours at work, I would think about the person driving that car. The thought of going to leave a note for them crossed my mind several times. I knew what she was driving. I had the plate number. And I knew where the car was parked.

“Just to let you know, I’m alright. I didn’t break any bones. I just got cut up pretty well.”

And what? Here is my card? No, leaving a note is a stupid idea. What would I even say? I wanted… what? There’s no point. She left the scene.

I’d rationalize in my head that she probably didn’t feel guilt, since she knowingly left me behind bloodied in the middle of an intersection, a victim of her reckless driving. She had stopped her car to look. And then she left. But I really wanted to believe that she did feel concern. That there was decency within her. But I realized that it’s possible she didn’t. But I still hoped that there was decency in her somewhere. I tossed this back and forth in my head for a bit.

I wanted to believe that she was in a tremendous rush because of something critical like a dying family member or something like a loved one returning by surprise from a war overseas. The more likely reality that she was driving so carelessly because she was running late to meet girlfriends who were waiting for her at the Clevelander… I tried to not think along those lines. That the reason for her reckless driving and my subsequent pain and crashed scooter wasn’t something so trivial.

Then for a brief period, my thinking ran along the lines of: The next time someone does this to me, I’m going to run right into them. They aren’t going to get hurt from a scooter hitting their relative tank, but I most certainly will. I’m going down and I’m going to get hurt either way. So they can pay for that through the damage to their automobile and their increased insurance premiums. I won’t be at fault. Plus, they won’t leave the scene of the accident so easily with me bleeding in the backseat of their car.

I abandoned that thought. Not because I worried about the pain involved in hitting a car, but because it’s obviously ethically wrong. It’s a really negative line of thought. Avoid the car at all costs. Unless there’s a woman with a stroller in the street. Or any other pedestrian. Then, avoid them and hit the car.

Later, as I was getting ready to make a delivery for a $10 sandwich to a fairly far-off residence (a delivery for which the tip would be minimal), the rain came. My raincoat was ruined from the accident so I had nothing to wear. Carlos, the older driver, loaned me his poncho before I left for the delivery. I hummed happy Frank Sinatra songs to myself as I sat at intersections, the rain soaking my head, stinging my scraped legs and ankle. I was drenched by the time I got there. I was friendly. I smiled. I thanked the woman for her tip and wished her a good day.

On the way back to the shop, the rain came down much stronger. I pulled off to the side of a quiet road and sat under the awning of a funeral home. My body ached. I was drenched. I knew at this point that my shoes, regardless of whether the rain continued or not, would remain damp and soggy for the remainder of my shift. I sat there, pulled out a cigarette and lit it. Thought some more about the accident.

I realized I didn’t want anything from the driver. I didn’t want an apology. I didn’t want an “I’m soooo sorry!” I realized I was worrying over two things: I worried that she might feel concern for my well-being. And I worried that she might not feel anything at all. Both were equally troubling. But it couldn’t be my issue. She left the scene of the accident and would work it all out on her own. I could only hope for the best for her.

I was still there and I would be fine. Life experience. Had one. Eventually, the cuts and bruises would fade away.

I finished my cigarette, waited for the rain to lighten and drove back to work. And that was my day. The high point, of course, in the picture above.