PlazaJen: Passion Knit

OK, I went out at lunch today because it's supposed to be the last nice warm day before we go back in the freezer for a week, and because I was fighting off stress-crying all morning, due to all the, you know, stress. I ordered a li'l take-out pad thai, and the dude on the phone coerced me into soft spring rolls, my absolute favorite thing. If they weren't $5 for three rolls, I could seriously eat like, 10 and call it lunch. It's like salad, herbs & noodly goodness in a wrapper!
Anyway. Traffic was a bitch going in to Westport, and an equal ruling bitch coming out. Thinking meself all "clever" and whatnot, I took a different route. It's the gamble route, because there's one big bad intersection to get through, but if traffic's light, or in your favor, it's the straightest way back to the plaza, where my office is.

Mmmkay! Even as I was getting to the intersection, I was thinking about what a bad intersection it is. I even looked up at the signs, to see what exactly in hell this street was. 43rd Street, and then I was at The Bad Intersection, where it hits Belleview. This is where you have to watch in a lot of different directions, pay attention to everyone ELSE'S lights, and then git where you're goin', and fast. I had one car in front of me, and then I saw the southbound Belleview traffic got their light. Damn. Who knows how long I'll be here - and then it all slowed down, as a woman decided to cross coming towards me and BLAM she hit a dude on a motorcycle. It felt like time moved in micoseconds as I watched him slam into her car, fall, and stay down.

The guy in front of me jumped out of his car and ran to the guy. I grabbed my phone. Dialed 911. And I was On Hold. Good lord. As I explained later, back at the office, though, I am excellent at communicating in a crisis: "We've got an injury accident at 43rd & belleview, we have a man down on the ground in the street." I sounded like a fucking dispatcher on COPS. Then time screeched back to normal, people drove by with their mouths open, this other dude and I moved our cars and then stood around while the sirens and the onlookers and the other people and the fire trucks and the ambulance and there were like, 8 paramedics, put this guy on a backboard and so carefully, so fearfully, they got him on a gurney thing and wheeled him away. His helmet still on. I was so glad he had his helmet on. I saw a gash in his leg as they wheeled him by, underneath where his jeans had torn. Watched the officer take his wallet from the paramedic, flip it open. The everyday for her, this was not earth shattering, this was not a bubble inside her about to break open, as mine inside me desperately tried to push tears out while my calm-in-serious-crisis persona stomped the hell out of that desire. Instead, I calmly gave my account of what happened, gave this policewoman my information, went back to work, parked my car, finally let go of the wheel, went inside, met with a rep, ate my spring rolls, wrote a document detailing my account of the accident and then got 14 more things done before I came home.

Where, I expect, I will eventually crack and some of the tears will leak out and the stress will ebb, and I will pray, yes, will pray that the man with his helmet on and the cut on his leg will be fine, able to walk, and will be, please, just fine. No more, please. Not today.