Premonition

Have you ever felt a bit off, as if something were wrong and you just couldn't put your finger on it? A warning of sorts. A premonition. A portent of things to come. You know that something's going to happen, but you don't know what. You just know that it isn't going to be good.

One day, my friend and many times roommate Luke and I were immersed in our usual post-work decompression ritual of getting stoned. Neither one of us said a word, we just passed that big red bong of mine back and forth and to and fro. We were smoking in silence, melting into the couch, a simmering stoned. Generally, we tried to smoke ourselves into a near comatose state before we decided what to order for dinner.

I had been feeling a little strange that day; a bit off and the feeling had come on quite unexpectedly. It was a feeling of dread and impending doom, crushing me in it's embrace. It was a sense of foreboding, a sense of impending doom. Nothing seemed right, I couldn't put my finger on it, but I had the feeling that my world was about to be turned upside down.

The silence was suddenly shattered by the ringing of the telephone, a ringing which seemed to me so desperate and foreboding. Luke and I looked at each other and the look that he gave me was an odd one, as if he sensed it too. The sound was off, more likely, we were both just really stoned.

The phone was next to Luke and he reached for it.

"Don't answer the phone," I said forcefully and much louder than I had intended to. "Don't answer that phone."

The phone continued to ring.

"Why not?" Luke asked me.

And ring...

"I don't know why," I said, "But something's not right and whatever it is, it has something to do with that phone call, so don't answer it."

Luke looked at me as if I'd completely lost my mind.

And then I suddenly knew.

"Because my mother is on the phone and if you answer that phone, she's going to tell me that my father is dead and if you don't answer the phone, my father can't be dead yet, so don't answer the damn phone.

Ring, ring...

"You've completely lost your mind," he said. "No more pot for you, you're cut off. You can't possibly know that. Your mother isn't going to be on the phone and your father isn't dead. You're out of your mind and you're high."

Luke reached over and picked up the phone, "Hello?"

Luke's face froze.

"Hello, Mrs. M.," Luke managed to croak out and then I saw a strange look come over his face as he handed the phone to me. I pressed the phone to my ear and spoke into it.

"Mom?" I asked. My worry had found focus and was dialing in. "What's wrong?"

My mother explained that there had been an accident and that my father had passed away. Evidently, he had been in the hospital for a little while, but no one had thought it important enough to tell me. That made me feel so much better. My father had been heavily sedated and was fast asleep in his bed. Against hospital policy and doctor's orders, his nurse had left the sides of his bed down, left the room, closed the door and then gone to lunch.

My father had rolled over in his sleep and he fell out of his bed. His catheter was violently dislodged as this happened and he fell heavily to the cold, hard tile floor below.

He started to hemorrhage, bleeding out in those long eternal moments between seconds, frightened and alone. I'm sure it was a terrifying and lonely death.

My mother told me of the scene that she had found when she entered the room; the pool of blood that he was laying in, so much of it; a entire life's worth. She told me too, of the hand prints. The bloody hand prints that she had seen on the sheets and the bed, where my father had tried to pull himself up, fighting until the end, but he never had a chance; it was over too fast.

I asked my mother when it happened and the time frame that she gave me corresponded to the same time that I had started feeling strange. I began to wonder if I had known the moment that my father had passed away and I'm pretty sure that I did know, I just hadn't recognized it for what it was. Strangely enough, the last time that I had seen my father, I knew it would be the last, that I would never see my father again, not alive, anyway. I don't know how I knew, I just did, I was convinced of it then and I still am today. I was so convinced that I would never see him again, it was impossible to get me to believe otherwise and it turned out that I was right. I wish I hadn't been, but I was.

Have you ever experienced anything like that?

If you enjoyed this story, please give this one a chance:

In My Father's Footsteps

Need a good laugh, instead? I've got you covered:

They Call Me Bae

Patch

Many years ago, when I was still married and living in West Virginia, my ex-wife and I owned two Dalmatians, Caesar and Cleo. I've written about Caesar previously in the stories "Hosed" and in "Who's the Boss?", but I've never written anything about Cleo.

While I've mentioned Caesar's casual insanity and the fact that he was just the worst dog ever (still loved him, though), Cleo had a heart of pure gold. Caesar was aggressive, hyperactive and just plain dumb, whereas Cleo was his complete opposite. She was sweet, gentle, intelligent and extremely well behaved.

We'd had Caesar for about a month and his behavior was making us crazy. As a possible solution, Medusa and I had talked about getting another puppy as a companion for Caesar and we hoped that having a friend might have somewhat of a calming influence on him. By the time we had finished our discussion, we had decided that we would get another Dalmatian, a female this time and I would be the one that would pick out the puppy that we would be bringing home. We also talked about the possibility of breeding the dogs, in the future.

We scoured the local newspaper, looking for local breeders that had a current litter and we found one right away. Even better, the puppies were weaned and ready to take home. I called the number and made an appointment to look at the puppies. Medusa and I were both in high spirits when the day of the appointment arrived. It's always tons of fun playing with a pack of puppies.

We drove out to the breeder's home, where we were greeted by a mother and her two very young children, a boy and a girl. We introduced ourselves and she asked the children to show us where the puppies were. The children led us over to an old car, explaining that they had just corralled the puppies so that we could look at them. We walked up to the car and the boy, who was around four, opened the rear door of the car. We were immediately assaulted by a gaggle of hyperactive puppies, the majority of which soon ran off to whatever mischief they could find to get into. Only one puppy remained and it had been sleeping on the back seat. The tiny white bundle of fur cocked its head, looked at us and yawned.

My kind of dog.

Medusa and I looked at each other and we both said, "We'll take that one."

"You don't want that one," the little girl said, "All she does is lie around all of the time. She's no fun."

"Oh, no," I said, "That's exactly what we want,"

I reached in and I picked up the puppy. I held her close to my face, so that I could take a good look at her. I gave her a good once over and I looked deeply into her eyes, searching for something that can't really be quantified, but I recognized it when I saw it and it was sweetness and gentleness and love. She licked the tip of my nose and wagged her tail. I was smitten; it was love at first sight.

We paid for the dog and Medusa drove us home, while I snuggled with my new puppy. I was as happy as could be and the little one and I became fast friends as I held her in my arms and tried to play with her. Since I had naming rights for the puppy, I decided to name her Cleopatra, because every Emperor needs an Empress to love.

When we arrived home, I set Cleo down to explore, but she wouldn't leave my side; she followed me everywhere. We had hidden Caesar away in our bedroom and he must have known that something was up, because he was chafing at the bit and scratching at the bedroom door like the maniac that he was, trying to escape and find out what was going on. Medusa released him from his puppy prison and he was out the door and down the hall in a flash, scampering downstairs in a little blur of black and white, just as fast as his little legs could carry him. He spotted Cleo and ran toward her. We held our breath, unsure of Caesar's reaction to the new puppy invading his territory, but we needn't have worried, because tails were wagging, butts were sniffed and a great love affair had begun. A love to last the ages.

The puppies ran around and played with each other until they were both exhausted and on the verge of collapsing. Caesar just stopped where he was and pretty much fell over, fast asleep. I was playing on my computer when I noticed that Cleo had decided to use my feet as a makeshift puppy bed. I reached down and picked her up, placing her on my lap, where she promptly fell asleep. She was so stinking cute.

We almost lost Cleo as a puppy, but after a long, determined and emotional roller coaster of a battle, and some very expensive treatment, we saved our girl. It only made us love her more.

Time passed by, the way it always does, and always much too fast. Our puppies grew up before we knew it.

When the dogs were both two years old, we decided to mate them and have a litter of puppies. We thought it would be a great experience and we also thought that we might be able to make a little extra money by selling the puppies. It really was a great, if vexing experience and to be honest, we didn't really make all that much money. Cleo had nine puppies in her first litter, which was just in time for Christmas and as expected, Cleo was the perfect mother for her babies, who all seemed to have the extreme ADHD that is so typical of the Dalmatian breed. Poor Cleo! Surprisingly, Caesar turned out to be a great dad, but we were always nervous whenever he was around the puppies and I think that Cleo was a bit nervous too, but everything went smoothly. Having a houseful of puppies was a lot of fun, but it was also exhausting and cleaning up after them wasn't exactly a barrel full of monkeys, either. Nine puppies make piles and piles of puppy poop and cleaning up after them could be pretty gross. Trying to navigate their basement den when I got home was literally like playing hopscotch in a minefield, as I jumped around the little piles, trying to get the floor cleaned up.

After the last puppy had left, life went back to what passed for normal. Medusa and I discussed the possibility of Cleo having another litter and we were pretty unsure of putting all of us through the ordeal again. We decided that if we were going to let the dogs mate again, we would wait at least a year, in order for Cleo's body to have time to recover and that as soon as practical after her seconed litter, we would have Cleo spayed. We separated the dogs when necessary and all was going well. We revisited the topic of mating the dogs again and decided not to. We made a Cleo a veterinary appointment, to get her spayed.

Well, one day  before the appointment, Medusa and I went to a nearby wine festival and we didn't want to leave the dogs in the backyard, because they would always escape, get picked up by animal control and then I would have to go bail them out of the dog house. We decided to leave them out on our second floor balcony, which was spacious, sheltered, shaded and just as importantly, easy to clean, if the dogs had an accident. We left the dogs plenty of food and fresh water and we went off on our way.

The wine festival was a lot of fun. We sampled everything that we could, bought a few bottles of Blueberry Mead, Honey Mead and a Cabernet Sauvignon/Riesling blend from a winery in Virginia that was surprisingly excellent. We also bought a few baubles, listened to a little jazz, which wasn't very good, but we were glowing from the wine and so it was good enough. A little dancing and some food to top off a beautiful, early summer day and it was time to head back home to take care of our furry kids.

When we arrived home, Medusa and I went upstairs to let the dogs out. When Medusa opened the door, she and I found two exhausted dogs that could barely stand and both of them were literally quivering. Caesar and Cleo staggered inside the house, both wandering off and both immediately going to sleep. This behavior was so unlike the two of them, that I was slightly concerned and confused as to what was going on, but after a nap, the dogs were back to their usual selves, so we dismissed this aberration in their behavior.

After the dogs woke up from their nap, we quickly came to the sobering realization that Cleo was in heat and that the reason both dogs had been so exhausted was because they had evidently been going at it the entire time that we were at the wine festival, and as the days and weeks went by, Cleo started to sport a baby bump.

Great...

Once again we prepped our basement for a puppy invasion as we awaited the oh, so joyous day and when it came, we were ready. So we thought. Cleo started to deliver at a little after six o'clock in the morning. Medusa had the day off, but I had to be at work in just a few hours. Based upon our previous experience, I thought that everything would be over soon enough and that I would be able to get to work on time with no problem.

As we attended the birth, we counted the arrival of each puppy with excitement. "Another boy! Another girl!" I would announce. She hit nine puppies and kept going, surpassing her previous litter. Ten, eleven, twelve. It looked like Cleo was finally finished delivering her puppies. The poor dog was completely exhausted, but to our surprise, she wasn't finished just yet. A thirteenth puppy appeared and then a fourteenth, the runt; a tiny little patch puppy that could barely move and was less than half the size of the other puppies. The patch covered more than half of the puppy's head. It was so cute! It squealed. Cleo pushed it away. I pushed it closer. Cleo pushed it away again. The puppy struggled, seeking warmth and food. I picked it up,wrapping my hands around it to give it some warmth and I brought its mouth up to one of Cleo's nipple to nurse and I put it down on her belly. The puppy couldn't nurse, it was too weak. Cleo pushed it away again. I asked Medusa to get on the phone with the vet, so that we could get or do whatever it was that we needed to do to save this puppy.

Medusa ran upstairs to get the phone. I picked the puppy back up and held her in my hands to keep her warm. Medusa came back into the basement with the cordless phone. We were both frantic, the scene was chaotic and emotionally charged.

Medusa was saying something about getting the puppy to the vet and puppy formula and I remember saying, "Let's go!" I decided to take one last shot at getting the puppy to nurse from Cleo. I opened my hands, the puppy took a breath, shuddered and stopped breathing.

Oh, no! No, no, no, no, no. Not on my watch.

What I did next was instinctive. I leaned down over the puppy and I brought my mouth to hers. It was covered in viscera, but I didn't care and I very, very gently blew into her mouth, inflating her lungs. I did it again. And again. Finally, the breath of life and the puppy started breathing on her own again. I let out a sigh of relief as I reached for the towel that Medusa was handing to me. I wanted to get the puppy wrapped up and as warm as possible for her trip to the vet.

She stopped breathing again before I could wrap her up. Once more, I gave my breath to her. Over and over. I felt her tiny little chest and there was no discernible heartbeat, but I wasn't ready to give up just yet. I gently rubbed her chest and then I breathed for her again. I repeated these actions a few more times until finally, the puppy responded, breathing on her own again. I wrapped her up and we headed for the stairs.

"Medusa. " I said, "I know that we agreed that we weren't going to keep any of these puppies, but if this one lives, we're keeping it, because you'll never get it away from me."

I was too emotionally invested to give up on that puppy. If I managed to help save her, I would never let her go.

Before I could even make it to the first step, she stopped breathing for the third and final time. I shared my breath with her, I rubbed her chest, I wouldn't let up, wouldn't give in, couldn't give up. I tried and I tried and I tried and I cried and I cried and I cried. Tears of sadness. Tears of frustration; frustration at my inability to save the life of this beautiful little creature and I felt broken for it.

Medusa had to pull me away. Even old stone face had tears in her eyes.

I looked at the pathetic and sad little bundle in my hands and I cradled her to my chest, leaned over and gently kissed the top of her head.

"Rest easy, little one," I remember saying, as I walked out of the basement door with my head bowed and I stepped into the backyard. I placed my sad little bundle into the warm rays of the sun and I walked back inside of the basement, grabbed a small box and a shovel. I walked over to the back corner of the yard and I began to dig. When the hole was deep enough to accomodate the box, I placed the puppy inside and buried her deepy enough so that her sleep would be undisturbed. I then built a small stone cairn on top, to mark her resting place.

After I buried the puppy, Medusa and I held each other and we cried for a bit, letting our grief wash over us. Everything had been so emotionally overwhelming and the two of us needed the release. It helped. For the briefest of time, that puppy had become the center of our universe and we had both fallen in love with her and we had done everything in our power to try and save her, but it just wasn't meant to be.

I didn't go to work that day, I couldn't. My heart was broken, I was emotionally spent and I looked afright, covered in blood and other nasty things. I headed for the shower.

In retrospect, I realize that Cleo instinctively knew better than I did and she was right, when she pushed the puppy away, but I had to try to save her; I was compelled to, you see, because every life is important to me. All lives matter, even that of a runt puppy. I'd have been less of a man and much less of a human being had I never tried. We do what's right and we do it simply because it's the right thing to do.

Life is such a beautiful and tragic thing.

Thanks for stopping by!

A very special thank you for my new editors, Kristina and Lisa!

If you enjoyed reading this story, you might like this one:

Primal Forces

Don't Touch That Dial - Sneak Peek

Here's a sneak peek into the next story. There are just a few paragraphs here, but it's almost finished. I'm just working on the editing and the ending, but it's getting there. Edit: Apparently, I'm rewriting the entire story, but it's important to get this one right. Let me get started by painting you a little picture...

All names in this story have been changed. Where possible, I have avoided using them entirely.

That first sweet kiss and a first broken heart. The things that we choose to remember and the things that we choose to forget. We pick and we choose and we throw away the parts that we don't like, only keeping those that fit in with our preferred narrative. Memories are funny things; they have an ability to sneak up on you at the oddest of times, these dreams of the past that smolder and burst into flames, opening a rabbit hole that sometimes you tumble down, down into the vast kaleidoscope of days remembered and days that were best forgotten; days where you learn all that your heart is willing to reveal and the many dark secrets that it still keeps. Moments of mourning for all that once was, all that was lost, with all that remains now ashes and shadows. Ashes and shadows.

Atlantic City was the first city that I fell in love with, the first place that I ever truly called home, a home to summer loves and the world in which I came of age. Like scenes projected onto a celluloid screen, the past comes to life.

My family owned a summer home at the foot of the Boardwalk and California Avenue. It was a cramped little condo, so small that there was barely enough room in which to draw a breath, but it had a spectacular ocean view that never failed to steal my breath away.

The city was vibrant then, it lived and it breathed, undulating with the flow of people. The mind's eye takes in the vast panorama of the beach and the ocean beyond, partially obscured by the roofs of the shops and arcades that once lined the boardwalk. Laughing gulls drift lazily overhead like so many summer clouds, their cries a lonely chorus of ephemeral notes. Blink and it's gone forever.

Atlantic City is where I stole my first kiss, drowning myself in the sweetness of her lips, awkward and fumbling and sweet, making my move in a poorly lit tunnel beneath the old Convention Hall, my first kiss on my first date with the girl who would become my first girlfriend and in time, my first heartbreak. 

Salt water taffy and fudge from the candy stores; ice cream on a warm Belgian waffle; Mack Fries with apple cider vinegar; pizza on almost every corner; and that warm sugar scent of cotton candy in the air. 

Summer jobs; working at a real newspaper stand at night and hawking newspapers on the beach by day; casting custard across the counter at King Kone; hustling hoagie rolls for Amoroso out of the back of a bread truck; slinging slices and working the grill at Three Brothers from Italy; ruling the world from my lofty perch while making change at Fun Spot and Playcade arcades at the height of the pinball and video game era and a posh lifeguard gig at the California Villas, where the closest I came to saving lives was skimming bugs from the pool. Basically, I was a glorified pool boy, cleaning the pool, hauling lounge cushions and babysitting brats. 

The Ice Capades, parades and arcades on the boardwalk, fireworks over the ocean on the fourth of July, sand castles, skateboards, and tourist traps. The amusement piers; Steel Pier, Steeplechase Pier, Central Pier and my favorite, Million Dollar Pier, with their carnival rides, games and sideshow like atmosphere. I can still see the crowds running from the "Wild Ape Woman."

People were everywhere, you couldn't escape them in Atlantic City. Gambling had been legalized not long before and people would throng to the shore, emigrating en masse and emptying entire cities, while filling the catacombs and coffers of the casinos. Dreamers dropping dollars on daydreams.

And that's the end of the sneak peek. If you like what you've read so far, give this story a shot:

Primal Forces

In My Father's Footsteps

Every little boy wishes to be just like his father. I've seen this in myself, with my own children and with every other little boy I've ever encountered. A father's habits are acquired by their sons, both consciously and unconsciously, and thus, these little quirks of personality are passed down through the generations. Sons learn to become their fathers both figuratively and literally. Be careful what you wish for may be borrowing an old cliché, but the truth rings through, and, like any other bargain made with Fate, you often find that you get more than you'd bargained for. Little did I know that when my grandfather died, it would echo down the years with a sense of déjà vu at the death of my own mother, and I found myself relying on the behavior and lessons learned from my father, for better or for worse, some twenty-five years earlier.

I don't remember much about my grandfather; he was already very old when I was born and sometimes I feel a little guilty that I can't remember him more, or better. The memories are small things really, more like vivid thoughts; there are no color to these memories. A gaunt and grizzled old man in a dark suit, standing in the doorway; a crown of gray hair and that enormous Roman nose. The ever present sparkle in my grandfather's eyes that spoke to me of youth and mischief, even though those eyes had grown weary, wrinkled and tired. What I remember most though, was when my father took me to say goodbye to my grandfather.

My grandfather, the patriarch of our family, had been in the hospital for some time and now he was quickly fading away. I hadn't known; it wasn't the sort of thing that adults tell a five year old boy. My father told me when it was time for a final goodbye and he took me to the hospital to see my grandfather one last time. To the eyes of a young boy, the old man seemed to have faded to almost invisibility. The tubes and wires coiled around his body like angry snakes, writhing, living beings. I took tentative steps toward the bed, trembling with, not fear, but perhaps nothing more than the infinite sadness of a young boy's heart, for I knew, as those too thin arms encircled me and pulled me close to him, his large, bony hands tousling my hair, I knew that this was the end. I remember all of the love that had the heart of that little boy bursting apart at the seams, as my grandfather spoke to me, telling me to be a good boy and a great man; he told me of all of the love in his heart, and then he told me goodbye.

As I left the room, there seemed to be a shadow hanging over my grandfather's bed, a sound that seemed to be almost a rustling of wings, half heard and haunting, it echoed through my mind as I closed the door. Moments later, my grandfather left the mortal prison his body had become; the betrayal of time chiseled so evidently upon his face. And I remember too, the realization of true loss, even at that age. I'm glad I was there, thankful to have had the opportunity to say goodbye.

The world turns, a carousel; years pass, life rises and falls. I had acquired all of the accoutrements of a family, a wife and two sons. Life was good, or so it seemed. The idyllic peace of a Sunday morning was shattered by the tortured shrieking of the telephone. My mother was in the hospital, the prognosis going from bad to worse; she wouldn't be leaving. The boys weren't told much, an adult shouldn't burden young children with these things, but as my mother started fading faster, the children were told and offered the opportunity to say goodbye to their grandmother. Of course they said yes. I remember standing in the hospital room with my sons, when I came to the realization that I was the same age as my father, and my oldest son, Anthony, the same age as myself when my grandfather died. I watched in almost disbelief, as history repeated itself and the scene continued to unfold.

Dominic, my youngest son, gave his grandmother a quick kiss and a hug before running out the door with tears in his eyes, whereas Anthony, at age five, was different. I looked up and I saw the tubes and the wires coiled around my mother's body, once again conjuring an image of angry, writhing snakes; her too thin arms encircling Anthony and pulling him closer. I watched as he held her bony, frail hand in both of his, and it seemed as if she had shrunk; Anthony's hands seemed to envelop hers. I watched as he gently patted her hand and reassured her that everything was going to be alright. I listened to my mother's voice, thin as a reed, as she whispered to him of her love, told him to be a good boy and a great man; how she didn't want to say goodbye. I was so proud watching my stoic little man, my heart bursting at the seams. When we left, he told me, with tears in his eyes, "I'll never see my grandmother again." And in that moment, I knew what he knew, and I knew that he had that same prescient knowledge of death that has haunted me through all of my days.

Despite the many similarities between the two scenes, they were each distinct in their own ways as well. My grandfather's death was caused by a stroke, my mother's was caused by lung cancer. My grandfather died in the hospital, whereas, my mother did indeed make it home once more. She passed away, in her own bed, three days after leaving the hospital, but it wasn't her, it was just the shell of her body; that was all that remained. In a sense, my mother never left the hospital at all; the person that came home just wasn't her. Yet it's only the similarities that seem to play through my memory.

I'm not sure if my father or I made the right choice. Was I condemned to suffer the same fate twenty-five years later? Have I condemned my children and grandchildren to the same fate as my father seems to have condemned me to? I feel that I am not fit to judge, but it would seem that even a history remembered is doomed to repeat itself. I always wanted to be just like my father, my sons want to be just like me. I'm afraid that we've all had our wishes granted, for better or for worse.

Small Comforts

A decision is such a simple thing, a simple choice; a or b, yes or no. Even the acts of indecision, or refusing to choose, are, in themselves choices. Sometimes the decisions we make aren’t consciously made, but rather pure instinct, guided by the invisible strings and hands of some unseen puppet master; the hand and strings that guide us, subverting our free will.

I was running late for work that day, though not by much. I had been late for work quite often the past few weeks and I knew that even though I was a valuable employee, I was close to crossing the line with my tardiness. I had thought that I could make up the time by driving like a maniac; once on the road, it was nothing more than a straight shot to the top of the mountain and then down to the highway, where I could put the pedal to the metal and make up for lost time by speeding. As I reached the crest of the mountain, I turned right, picking up speed for the descent, when I suddenly had to apply the brakes, tires screaming, as I slammed into the seat belt, narrowly missing the car in front of me. Instinctively, I knew there had been an accident, but I was late for work and just did not have the time to stop and offer assistance.

Seeing the long line of traffic stopped ahead of me, stretching off into infinity, I realized that the detour that I would now have to take would add another twenty minutes travel time to my commute and I decided to get going before I would be in even more trouble for arriving late to work. Frantically, I turned the steering wheel, pressing the accelerator to the floor whilst busily cursing my luck as I pulled out into the opposite lane. That was when I saw the overturned SUV. Standing on the brakes again, for the second time in moments, I slammed into the seat belt like a fighter pilot maneuvering against a heat seeking missile, and I felt the straps cutting into my chest and midsection. “What am I doing,” I thought, “I don’t have time for this. I can’t afford to risk losing my job!” But it was if another hand was guiding mine that day as I turned off the ignition; unseen hands pushing me out of the car as I took off at a dead run down the mountain toward that overturned truck. That was when I saw the other vehicle, a rust colored car that I thought was a PT Cruiser, with the entire front end like an accordion, smashed against the side of the mountain. Seeing the driver of the SUV crawling out from her vehicle, I hurriedly asked if she was okay and she nodded yes and I could see that she was shaken up more than anything. I then made a beeline for the rust colored car, stripping off my work shirt so as not to damage it. What I saw when I reached the other vehicle stopped me in my tracks and froze my blood like an ice filled river.

I quickly circumnavigated the car, assessing the situation. I checked the driver first as he seemed to have the worst injuries. I could tell that his neck was broken as he sat there twitching, his head at an unnatural angle against the side of the car. I checked his pulse and it was faint and erratic. I knew that there was nothing that I could do for the driver and I then ran around to the passenger side of the vehicle to check on the other occupant. The man was conscious, but broken and bleeding; I could tell that he was quickly going into shock. I threw my work shirt on top of the vehicle and quickly stripped off my t-shirt tearing it apart for bandages and then removing my belt to use as a tourniquet, if necessary. The man had deep gashes on his head and right arm; I could not appraise the damage to his lower extremities because they appeared to have been swallowed whole by the gaping maw of the crushed front end. I started talking to him, asking his name and his companion's name as well; introducing myself; doing anything I could to keep him talking. I knew that I had to keep him talking and calm in order to keep him from slipping further into shock while I worked on his injuries. I learned that the driver’s name was Stefan, yet I cannot remember the passenger’s name; but I do remember the crimson arterial blood that was like a fountain. I bandaged him and applied my belt as a tourniquet, just above his elbow, slowing the bleeding but not stopping it completely. I yelled out for more bandages from the onlooking crowd; blankets, shirts, anything that I could use to bind his injuries, all the while keeping a running conversation with the man while I was worked on his many injuries.

I learned that they were both from Germany and were here in the United States on business. I don’t know how he managed it, but, the next thing I knew, he was handing me his cell phone, asking me to call the man they had been on the way to meet. When the phone was answered, I quickly apprised their business associate of the situation and asked if he could get word back to Germany, in order for their families to be notified. He assured me that he would do just that, thanking me before I hung up the phone. I put the cell phone back in the car and started talking to the passenger again, trying to keep his attention on me and prevent him from looking at Stefan. The man told me of his wife and children and his life back in Germany while I stood there and held his hand. I said meaningless, soothing things, assuring him that everything was going to be alright. I held his gaze with mine the entire time, while still attending to his injuries as best I could.

I don’t know how long we stayed like that; it seemed an eternity before the paramedics and firefighters showed up, but it was time to let the professionals go to work. I told the man goodbye, assuring him once again that everything would be alright, telling him to hold on. I quickly grabbed my work shirt from the roof of their car and ran back to my own. I had to get back home, call my boss, get dressed again and get back on my way to work. When I walked into my house, my wife started screaming, apparently, I looked like a ghoul; I hadn’t realized that I was completely covered in blood. My precious work shirt, which I had tried so hard to keep clean was destroyed. Seeing the blood all over me, everything that had happened finally struck home, hitting me with the force of a sledgehammer. I was beyond distraught and, quite possibly, in shock myself. I called my boss and explained the situation, and that I would be in as soon as I could get changed and on my way. Dy, my supervisor, asked me if I was crying and I realized that I was, the tears streaming down my face. Unashamedly, I told him that yes, I was crying. Dy told me to stay home that day and to just come to work as normal the next. Realizing just how distraught and exhausted I was, I agreed; I was certainly in no condition to go to work.

The next day, I went to work as normal. When I arrived, I found all of my fellow employees gathered around reading the newspaper. Dy saw me and asked me to come into his office where he told me that both men had succumbed to their injuries and had died. I was devastated; I blamed myself, thinking that there must have been something more that I could have done; something that I should have done and hadn’t. Dy insisted that I take the evening off and go home, so that I could work things out for myself. I couldn’t stop blaming myself, even though logically, I knew it wasn’t my fault.

It wasn’t until much later, and until after many long conversations with family and friends, that I realized that I had done the right thing. I had provided some small comfort to a man in his final moments and that was something to be proud of. I don’t consider myself anything special for any of my actions that day; I just did the right thing, even though initially, I hadn’t wanted to.