They say you can never go Home...

Soldiers of Sparta were allowed to return home after lost battles, only if carried dead upon their shields. I'm convinced this is a more practical and time-saving way to go about it.

Saturday, January 29, 2005

Yesterday, there was an accident just down the street.

I didn’t immediately know it was an accident; I only saw the droves of cars winding rather disaffectedly through the shaded, twisting streets around Florida College. They reminded me of ants, plucked from their familiar chemotactic highways and dumped suddenly into some child’s ant farm—backing up, turning around, circling, feelers waving in the direction of the mazelike partitions, trying to make sense of it all.

I was heading back to The Compound from the gym, trying to see through the mist that very unexpectedly crossed my eyes. I pulled in and steeled myself to make the goddam phone call—a trivial task! which should be so simple and uncomplicated, but, due to my ability to take reasonably unpleasant vicissitudes and escalate them to life and death proportions, seemed instead to be of monumental significance, like turning down Salvation, or getting out of bed in the morning to attend to matters of oral hygiene.

The sudden roar of helicopters circling the house had become deafening, so I gratefully postponed the call and went to the driveway to investigate, where I found myself face to face with two Aeromed helicopters in the process of landing on the second hole, decidedly halting the golf game of six bewildered citizens who'd stopped their carts short of their ad hoc landing pad.

Then looking to my left, I see the sea of blue and white flashing lights; the Police Army of Temple Terrace blocking off the main arterial highway.

A truck had apparently run a small car off the road. The car had careened into a title company, severely injuring the two young men who were driving.

Within 15 minutes of arriving, the cavalcade of ambulances, firetrucks had left, the helicopters made their elegant liftoff and disappeared into the cloudy sky, and the ambient neighborhood sounds of the kids laughing and yelling in the playground behind me had returned. Their afternoon bell rang shortly thereafter, and then they made their noisy, agreeable retreat into the confines of their little school. Then silence.

Except for the dull hum of embarrassment of being the owner of self-important, histrionic thought patterns, which throbbed mockingly in-time with the flashing police lights.