O.O.C.

I was almost mowed down by a motorcycle the other day. And I’m not being dramatic either. It actually took me about 15 hours to realize what nearly happened, and when I did I just about lost my shit.

Two days ago I was coming from the market, having gone both out of necessity and a desire to catch a glimpse of Jennifer, one of the younger vendors who high-balled me on a coconut sale last week; she’s super-humanly attractive. I satisfied both intentions and was heading back home with my hands full. Only a few feet from the market, I arrived at the optimal road-crossing point (since there are rarely any official ones) and carefully, very carefully watched the cars and motorcycles (or okada) coming towards me from the left in order to spot a breaking point in the flow of traffic that would allow me enough time to reach the median without having to move in much more than a light trot.

After about 1 minute I saw my chance. Thinking back it was a bit nonsensical, but instead of going right into a jog, I instead took a rather leisurely step, with my right foot, off of the curb. My eyes were focused where my foot was now in the road and instantly, I saw the wheel of a motorcycle appear from the right, not quite 6 inches from where my toes lay exposed in my sandal. In that same instant I felt the heat of the engine warm my shin through my pants. As the young man drove past he looked back and I heard myself make an unusually breathy, and somewhat situationally inappropriate exclamation: "Woo-oo . . . "

My shin was still feeling the warmth from the engine as I kept crossing the street. I made it to the median, looked BOTH ways (even though vehicles are only supposed to be moving in one direction on either side of it), found another space to cross, and finally made it to the curb that would lead me home.

I wasn’t shaken, I wasn’t upset at the okada driver for going the wrong way, I wasn’t even really thinking about it anymore. It felt more like a brief day-dream than anything else: wow, that sure was close . . . I’ll have to go back and get some pineapple sometime this week . . .
And then I was home. The evening came and I scarcely thought about the incident again before I went to bed.

. . .

But then I woke up yesterday morning and I found myself on the verge of hyperventilating . . . ! HOLY SHIT! I almost got mowed down by a fucking motorcycle! He would have knocked me down flat and I probably would have cracked my head open on the concrete! And then he would have been hit by the car coming from the other direction and then HE would have probably been splattered all over the road!

I could see the blood and gore so vividly: my produce would have been everywhere and one of my breasts would have been let loose from it’s marginal security within my halter-cut top. Someone, an older woman most likely, would have taken pity on my helpless indecency and folded the poor thing back in place (to some onlookers the motion would be reminiscent of tucking in a lapel handkerchief). And that would have been the final chapter.

And then another scenario played itself out – more detailed but not so morbid. I would have been struck down and broken in many important locations; my produce and one breast are still spilled, but I’m conscious. This time many people rally to my aid and a van appears (it would have to be a van so I can be laid inside comfortably), ready to take me away from the horrible scene. I have very little energy, so with a great deal of effort I croak out my father’s address, "3rd Avenue . . . B Close . . . House . . . . . . 14. . ."

We arrive quickly and from there my father (devastated, but holding himself together for my sake) directs us to the hospital. I’m treated immediately, but as the weeks go by and my convalescence drags on, it’s revealed that it’s not the best treatment by far. My wounds become infected, there’s talk of amputation, and I painfully come to terms with my long-term prognosis: I’ll never be able to play the drums again.

. . .

All this and MORE run around and around in my early morning mind while the bread woman and the newspaper man and the tailor cry and honk and clink up and down the street and somewhere in between the internal and external chaos I literally believe that I am on the verge of a mental breakdown.

But then . . . something inside of me starts to settle and I can feel myself breathing normally again.

I realize that I’m FINE.

In such a short amount of time, I’ve managed to go from feeling completely invincible to feeling one hundred percent destructible about twenty times. Eventually, I settle on being grateful – and I SWEAR to be more careful.