The other night, just after I came up from the subway and crossed Pacific Street, there was a car accident on 4th Ave and Pacific. Someone trying to make it through the intersection as the yellow was changing to red, someone else anticipating the change from red to green. The sound was huge and scary. The hit was so hard that the Pacific Street car was thrown across the intersection and up onto the sidewalk where I’d just been walking.
In a city with so many cars, a city famous for aggressive driving, it’s a wonder I don’t see more car accidents. But I don’t. And each one I do see is shocking and upsetting. My heart was beating painfully fast after the crash. So fast that it took me a minute to think to call 911. But there were so many people on the street dialing, by the time I gave my information to the operator, they’d already logged the accident and sent out EMS and the police.
I didn’t stick around, but walked down to my bus to take my shaky self home, thankful that I’d crossed the street exactly when I had. Ten seconds slower and that Pacific Street car would have careened right into me. I was sorry for the people in the cars, of course, but grateful I’d been missed.
And then last night I learned of another hit and miss. After a week of mourning the loss of my friend Kenrick … I find that there are, in fact, two men in town with the exact same first and last name … and the Kenrick who has died isn’t the Kenrick I know. Really. What are the chances of this being true? I finally got through to someone I’d been trying to reach all week to offer condolences and find out more about what happened … only to be given the news that “my” Kenrick is alive and well. I saw a picture online today of the man who has died and he looks like a lovely man. I am sorry that his family and friends have lost him. But I am still grateful that the other Kenrick is just fine.