accident in West LA
Monday, July 10 2000
In the evening as I was minding my own business at the townhouse, I heard one of those sounds that one doesn't hear too infrequently on nearby Bundy Drive. It was the sound of screeching tires on pavement followed by the thwack of impact. In the comic harshness of reality, auto crashes never sound anything like the way Hollywood makes them sound. They have an understated patheticness about them that belies expensive damage.
Like others up and down my street, I was eager to see what had happened. Having to walk my dog Sophie is one of the best excuses imaginable for sauntering into an auto accident scene, so I hooked her up to her leash and grabbed a poopie bag. Sadly, in West LA, dog owners can't get away with leaving dog poo on people's lawns like they can in Ocean Beach, San Diego.
When I got to the scene of the accident, a crowd of about two dozen people had gathered. Evidently a cement truck had come to something of an abrupt stop while turning to enter my street and a sporty little Japanese car had smacked into its rear. I knew it was bad when all I could see of the sporty Japanese car was the rear tires (both of them flat, of course) and about four feet of the trunk. The rest of the car, including its driver, had somehow gotten wrapped around the cement truck's rear axle. I could feel a sourness rising in my throat when I saw the fluid draining from between the cement truck's rear wheels. It was a clear oily liquid that pulled with it ribbons of bright crimson. Somehow the contents of the Japanese car's gas tank was washing through the mangled cab and bringing with it the blood of the driver. I suddenly decided I didn't want to be a voyeur any more. So I turned southward and started walking towards Santa Monica. But Sophie was reluctant. She stood her ground and demanded to continue her investigations beneath the bushes of a nearby condo. Finally I started dragging her, and since I'm bigger and stronger than her, she had to come along, her claws scratching along the sidewalk. About that time I noticed she had something in her mouth. Whatever it was, it was too big to ignore. She's been having stomach trouble lately and I didn't want to risk her getting sick again. So reached in under her long, stringy mustache to force her to drop whatever it was she had. And then I recoiled. My hand knew what it had touched even before my eyes could see it. What she held in her mouth, if you can believe it, was a human hand.
Of course, you don't have to believe it if you don't want to. I could be making the whole thing up just to have an interesting story to tell. In this case, yes, I am making this up. If I decided to start making up my stories, you can be sure I'd make them more interesting than the stories I've actually been telling. Don't get me wrong, there actually was an accident on Bundy Drive near my house tonight, but it was a minor fender-bender between two passenger cars. No cement trucks were involved. The drivers, when I saw them, were in a state of shock, sitting on the curb while good samaritans ran off to get them blankets and pillows. Somebody's airbag deployed and powder from its ejection was drifting out of the car cabin like smoke. But there was no blood. And there was no disembodied hand flung into the bushes.
Do you think these entries are fictional or contain fictional elements?
Have you ever wondered where the Taco Bell burrito stuffers hang their hats in a city where it's impossible to find a studio apartment for less than $700/month? Perhaps you've also pondered the sorry living conditions of a Silicon Valley Web Developer who only earns $80,000 per year. Here's a fascinating story that begins with a
mobile residence for Silicon Valley's "working poor" and ends up explaining why a place like Silicon Valley will never have civic health. It gave me the willies, as well as a lot to think about.
For linking purposes this article's URL is:feedback
previous | next