4.4.97

Median of 500 South

At 10th. East, 5th. South takes a deep twisted dive down, nearly a hundred foot drop. Tall apartment complexes rise over each side, some of which I have lived in, others I have visited. The traffic tends to speed by at ungodly rates ignoring the 25 mph signs, daring themselves to skirt the cement median with simple inches to spare. It's a challenge. It's a dare.

I'm sitting on that median, 3 AM or so. The cars are few and scattered at this hour, but those that pass do so closely and I try to get a good look at the faces behind the wheels. I've been sitting here for maybe an hour, maybe two.
I've been watching and waving. I've just finished the last of my flask of whiskey when the little red compact car that passed heading west a few minutes ago reappears, pulls over and stops.

The guy who gets out looks pretty normal. My age or close, although he looks it and I don't, fairly yuppied, short blonde hair, buttoned shirt with a collar. He looks right and left, although the traffic on his side of the street only comes from the one direction. He walks over to me.
"You OK?" he asks. He's worried about a total stranger who's sitting on a median inches away from cars that are traveling at near highway speeds.

"Um, sure," I lie. He looks a bit confused and sits next to me.

"Do you mind if I ask what you're doing here?" he says.

I suck on the empty flask. Damn. It's really empty. I have nothing to tell this man.

"Actually," I say, "I was just thinking about the time I played hacky sack with Alannis Morrisette and dared her to define'ironic.'"

Now, that's a true story, but not what I'm thinking about. But who is this guy? Why should I tell him what I'm thinking? How could he understand how good it feels to have a ton of metal pass your knee just mere inches away, how the cold wake of each passing vehicle smells like an invigorating wisp of another side? How somewhere in my drunken stupor I've decided that I should face what is one of my greatest fears, getting arrested, by making it happen right now? That I've decided to sit in the middle of one of Salt Lake's busiest streets in the middle of the night, drunk and drinking, dealing scourge on each passing vehicle until I finally get hauled away.
He is unable to understand. He is lucky that way.

"I was also thinking," I lie again, "That I have no idea if my friends are circumcised or not. I'm not yet sure if that's a good or bad thing."

I am really thinking about leaping in front of the next passing vehicle. I'm not suicidal. I'm just wondering what the experience would be like.
Is there any moment more real and alive than getting hit by tons of speeding metal? I know friends that have survived the experience. What does that feel like?.... I'm feeling a need for experiences I've never known. I'm in a mood for self-flagellation. I'm sick of ignorance, stupidity, passivity. I want action, pain, fear. I want more. I'm drunk.

"Are you going to be ok?" he asks. "I just saw you here and wondered if I could help."

"There is one other thing bothering me," I say.

"What's that?"

"I just turned 30. My whole life, I woke up in the morning after sex with someone for the first time and I felt guilty. Ya know? Like I've got a thick film on my skin that doesn't belong there that I feel as though I stole. Now, nothing."

The stranger's brow furrows. He has no idea what needs to be said. He is a simple, content man. He wants to understand me, he recognizes the part of himself that, had things gone a bit differently in his life may have lead to a kinship with the likes of me.

He asks again if I'll be all right. I lie again. In my head I'm hearing Face-to-Face singing, "Don't say I'm OK, I'm not OK...."

The empty silver flask, an Easter present from Kerrie (people still give presents to people for Easter these days?) reflects the street lamps which the corner of my eye catches as I watch the stranger carefully cross the street to his car. He looks back at me once more before he opens his door and leaves. His small red car reminds me of mine, which is in the shop again. I realize that I could have easily become him, too.

Cars pass. Newspaper trucks. Cabs. A limo. All I smell in the air are things I can no longer relate to.

I give up and walk home. Just a few blocks. But I think of the stranger. I think of his kindness, his simplicity, his contentment. There is more buried under his skin. Things better left buried.

There may be a need for more people like him.

wwood