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10:01 a.m. - 2003-08-02
bandaid breakdown
Just before the accident, it happened. I was walking heavily down the street, as if still half asleep, running my hands along the bridge railing like a blind man finding his way. There was a gap between the sections of rail: my pinky finger was caught in the gap and a small patch of skin was torn away. But I did not notice the bleeding until I reached the library ten minutes later, because at the moment that I pulled my finger away from the rail in annoyance, the pain was drowned out by a tremendous crash. Back up the road twenty feet, a trailer disengaged from its truck, settling to the ground with much cracking and smashing of concrete and rock hauled up in construction. The front end of the truck, the cab or the tractor or whatever they call them these days, rolled out into the street, pursued by a frantic man in a hardhat in jeans, who leaped heroically up into the cab and slammed on the brake. To my eyes, he was just in time: a few more feet and the truck would have been rolling down stairs into the student center, which would have been worth my doubling back to get pictures to sell to all the newspapers.

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