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I WAS PRESENT AT THE DEATH OF A MAN NAMED EDGAR STEIN. | I WAS PRESENT AT THE DEATH OF A MAN NAMED EDGAR STEIN. | ||
I was driving back to New Orleans, just over the Tennessee-Mississippi line, listening to Bud Powell’s classic jazz piano playing Blue Pearl. My ancient van was holding its own in a tight line of speed-limit traffic when a tractor-trailer up ahead began drifting left and then slid sideways so it blocked both lanes. When it started rolling over, I jerked my hands hard right on the wheel to get myself out of the pile-up. There was no chance. The pickup behind me slammed into my rear bumper and pushed me violently forward into the RV ahead. | |||
There was a loud crash, metal twisting against metal, and everything went dark. | |||
There was a loud crash, metal twisting against metal, and everything went | |||
dark | |||
I tried to pull myself back into consciousness. It seemed to take an eternity. Finally managing to climb out of my vehicle and stumbling a few steps, I turned back to look. The front end of my van was significantly shortened, with steam rolling up thick enough to hide the RV it had smashed into. My mind was blurry, but it felt important to move away. I started to make my | |||
way along the line of wreckage, the scent of burning tires inescapable. Lucky to be alive. Aware enough to know it. | |||
“What’s your name?” | “What’s your name?” | ||
I turned to face the stranger who had taken my arm. “Gilbert.” It was a | I turned to face the stranger who had taken my arm. “Gilbert.” It was a | ||
name I hadn’t answered to since childhood and had hated it even then. | name I hadn’t answered to since childhood and had hated it even then. | ||
The stranger sat me down on some damp grass next to an old man in a | The stranger sat me down on some damp grass next to an old man in a | ||