My Name is Joe, and I Was Hit By a Truck

So I've been struggling to come up with a good topic for today.  I do have some ideas, but I either want to save them for a specific day, or I don’t have the time to develop them right now.  So I asked my students what they would be interested in hearing about.  Most replied with stories about dates or college (or both), but I don’t think I’ll go that route due to the fact that some psycho-chick might get offended or something.  Let’s just hope the restraining orders are still good.  Just kidding.  It just doesn't feel like the right moment.  However, I will tell a story from my bachelor days at Ricks College.

My last year in Rexburg (1995), I worked as the grill man at Wendy’s—usually three or four nights each week.   One Saturday evening when business was unusually slow, I got off early: eight o’clock.  Sweet.  A couple of my roommates had asked if I wanted to get pizza at Craigo's that night.  Some new band was playing, and Josh and Duane wanted me to hang with them. Knowing my affinity for that scrumptious sourdough crust and house ranch dressing, they tried to convince me to call in sick to work.  The show didn't start until nine, but now that I was off, I could make it if I hurried.  The only problem was I wanted a date—no one special, really, just someone of the female persuasion to accompany me.

I honestly have no recollection of who I called before I left the restaurant, but she said yes, and I hustled out the kitchen door on foot (since I didn't have a car) to shower and change before the band went on.  I lived up the hill, just north of campus in an old brick house that had been split into apartments; but it was still eight long, cold blocks before I could shed my funky fast-food apron and garb and stop smelling of the Big Bacon Classic and fries.  I picked up the pace.

I believe it was late October or early November, and it was already dark.  Snow covered the fields and lawns, but the roads were clear except for the slushy lava rock ice mixture that cluttered the Rexburg gutters.  Stars sang brightly in the clear sky.  This was turning out to be a beautiful night on several levels.

I started crossing an intersection.  One pair of headlights came toward me, but there was a stop sign standing guard over the crosswalk.  I noticed something wrong when I reached the middle of the road: the truck wasn't slowing down.  Crap.

Caught in no man’s land, I tried to get finish crossing before being pulverized by the oncoming white Ford F-350, but there was no way I was going to make it.  As it screeched through the intersection, I jumped, and with a Matrix-like slow motion feature, popped with the aluminum—down then up and over the rest of the hood, and landed on my feet, legs spread, knees bent, arms karate-ready like a super cheesy action movie hero.

Did that just happen? I lowered my hands back to my side, realizing how ridiculous I appeared.

The truck skidded to a halt after fish-tailing the middle of the intersection.  Traffic stopped.  A girl no more than sixteen opened the door, looked around and glared daggers at me.  Without repeating her words, she swore bloody murder at me for not looking where I was going.

I stared back at her in disbelief as she went nutso.  Her little brother, wearing a tall white cowboy hat poked his head out the passenger side window to see what big sister was freaking out about.  He saw me and ducked back in the cab, rolling up the window.

Outwardly calm, but inwardly fuming at her stupidity and self-absorption, I deliberately stretched out my arm and pointed to the stop sign.

Daddy’s rodeo princess noticed I wasn't responding to her berserker mode, so she stopped.  Her line of vision traced from my finger back to the stop sign.  She gulped.

I pointed right at her and held my arm steady.

Her face blanched.  Guilt had her in a stranglehold now.

I pointed back to the sign.  Then down at the crosswalk.  Then to my chest.  Back to the crosswalk.  Back to the stop sign.  And back to her.

She wouldn't meet my eyes again, but she hopped out to examine daddy’s truck.  Cars started honking for her to get her behemoth out of the intersection.

As I turned to leave, she yelled at me again and sped off.

For a minute or two, I stood there on the corner while the adrenaline wore off and the traffic cleared.  I walked home shaking my head, my thumb throbbing, my mind perplexed.  How could anyone be that ignorant?  How did I jump that high?  Why am I not a hood ornament right now?  Someone must have been looking out for me.  Needless to say, I didn't make it to Craigo's.