Visions Tomorrow - Part 1: Terminal Traffic (by Rune Woodman)
September 23rd 2007 08:01
Trapped in my car I sat, in the far right lane about 50 metres from the lights where Broadway becomes Parramatta Road. Morning traffic backed up on Broadway heading out of the city. I know that doesn’t make sense. Traffic should have been flowing easily out of the city and slowly into it, but I was late, so of course everything was the wrong way around. The lights turned green, my lane didn’t move.
There was a specialist at RPA Hospital with a six-month-long waiting list and I had an appointment with him that morning at 9am. There I was at 8:59, less than half a block away and some idiot in a red convertible was sitting at the head of the queue, with a green light - not moving.
Typically the other two lanes had cleared; it was only my lane held up. I flicked on my indicator, moved into the next lane and hit the accelerator to try and catch the light before it changed but was too late and I ended up next to the convertible so I glared at it with a sneer.
Two young men occupied the front seats – rich kids in Daddy’s car. The car radio was on, music blared from it. The passenger slumped forward, held up by the shoulder strap of his seat belt. The driver leant back, his head lolled to the side. They were out of it. Drugs, I was certain. Angrily I turned back to the traffic lights and held my breath waiting for the green. In my side mirror I saw movement. The driver behind them tentatively got out of her car and walked up to see what was going on. She was a little old lady; you couldn’t describe her in any other manner. Her car was in perfect condition, you could imagine it the day after she died, advertised in the paper with the caption, “One lady driver”.
She surveyed the scene then turned to me. “I think they’re dead!” she said, and her jaw dropped open.
Oh, just my luck! I could have stayed back in the queue, waited for the next change in the lights and got on to the hospital, I would only have been a few minutes late. But no, I had to jump the queue at the wrong time and I was a witness. The little old lady would expect me to help and I would never get to see the specialist. Why did I even get out of bed that morning?
“They can’t be dead,” I said. “The engine’s running.”
The lady shook the passenger by the shoulder. He fell back into his seat without a sound.
The lights turned green again. It was my last chance to run. The old lady would be in shock, she wouldn’t think to get my number, and I could have been out there and done with it. I turned off my engine and got out of the car. If they were dead I might get on the news.
The air suddenly filled with the sound of honking. Sydney drivers are crazy. They’ll risk you’re your death and theirs so they can race up to a red light and sit there waiting for it to change or they’ll hang around in a queue for ages doing nothing until someone honks their horn, then they all join in.
Ignoring the hooting and yelling from behind me I lent into the car and touched the passenger’s cheek. The cheek was warm. My index finger pushed at the side of his neck looking for a pulse – I couldn’t find one but I’m no expert in these things.
“What do you think?” the old lady raised her voice over the noise of car horns and radio. She had also leant into the car and was uncomfortably close.
“Can’t find a pulse,” I said and walked around to the other side of the car. The driver was warm and again there was no pulse. Reaching for the keys I turned the engine off and silenced the radio and leant down so my ear was near the driver’s mouth. Perhaps he was breathing, but I heard nothing.
The old lady asked, “Have you got a mobile phone? We should call for an ambulance.”
“No need,” I said looking up at her. Over her shoulder I saw a police car had pulled up behind mine. Trying not to look guilty I returned to my car and stood by the driver’s door. There was only one cop in the car, a woman. Looking very official she got out and surveyed the scene.
“What have we got here then?” she asked, looking directly at me.
The old lady stepped forward, “We need an ambulance. These two boys are dead!” She was very dramatic about it; one hand went to her mouth, the other to her forehead.
The police woman repeated my steps, searching for a pulse in each driver. She talked into her radio at the same time, a bunch of words that meant little to me. When she was done she asked, “Is any one else hurt? Ma’am?”
“No, I’m fine. More shocked than anything. Are they?”
“I think so, yes,” confirmed the police woman.
A vision of the day stretched before me. An ambulance would come to take away the bodies. The old lady and I would be taken to the local police station and questioned. The papers would find out about it and it would be all over the news. “Mystery Death on Broadway” the headlines would read. I was certain they would want to interview me for the 6 o’clock news and I would probably become a bit of a celebrity for a day or so, along with the little old lady. I shivered with glee.
Considering we were only half a block from the Hospital it seemed a long time before an ambulance arrived. The old lady’s name was Lynda. We were taken to the Newtown police station and gave our statements. That was it. I waited for my phone to ring, hoping to hear from Tracy Grimshaw at ‘A Current Affair’. I’d be very happy to be interviewed by Tracy.
My phone was silent.
I went to work and kept an eye on ‘The Sydney Morning Herald’ online. The story didn’t appear.
At home that night I watched as many of the news services as I could - nothing. The next day, and the next, there was no mention of the two young men found dead in their car, with the motor and radio running in peak hour traffic.
The police man who’d taken my statement had given me his card so I called him and asked if there were any leads into the deaths. He told me the case was closed and he was not able to comment any further.
It seemed my dreamed fame wasn’t to happen. I was driven to distraction and couldn’t get my work done so I took a couple of weeks off. I visited the hospital and told them the story about the two young men, I didn’t want any privileged information; just the location and date of the funerals so I could pay my respects. It was the least I could do, after all I was the one who found them. Technically it was Lynda, but I touched both of their dead bodies, I deserved to know when and where they were going to be buried. If not fame, then I needed closure!
They told me nothing. There was no record of fatalities brought in the previous Monday.
The situation has driven me crazy. I know I was there. I know they were dead. Why was no one answering my questions? Weeks have passed since I found them and you’d think the whole thing was some kind of hallucination.
I’ve written it all down. I’ve written it down so it’s out of my system. I’ll go back to work tomorrow and get on.
I should have spoken to Lynda, I should have asked her who she was and what she did, then I’d be able to track her down. She wasn’t really that old. There’s a chance I might bump into her again. Her car was yellow, small and neat.
Yellow, small and neat.
There was a specialist at RPA Hospital with a six-month-long waiting list and I had an appointment with him that morning at 9am. There I was at 8:59, less than half a block away and some idiot in a red convertible was sitting at the head of the queue, with a green light - not moving.
Typically the other two lanes had cleared; it was only my lane held up. I flicked on my indicator, moved into the next lane and hit the accelerator to try and catch the light before it changed but was too late and I ended up next to the convertible so I glared at it with a sneer.
Two young men occupied the front seats – rich kids in Daddy’s car. The car radio was on, music blared from it. The passenger slumped forward, held up by the shoulder strap of his seat belt. The driver leant back, his head lolled to the side. They were out of it. Drugs, I was certain. Angrily I turned back to the traffic lights and held my breath waiting for the green. In my side mirror I saw movement. The driver behind them tentatively got out of her car and walked up to see what was going on. She was a little old lady; you couldn’t describe her in any other manner. Her car was in perfect condition, you could imagine it the day after she died, advertised in the paper with the caption, “One lady driver”.
She surveyed the scene then turned to me. “I think they’re dead!” she said, and her jaw dropped open.
Oh, just my luck! I could have stayed back in the queue, waited for the next change in the lights and got on to the hospital, I would only have been a few minutes late. But no, I had to jump the queue at the wrong time and I was a witness. The little old lady would expect me to help and I would never get to see the specialist. Why did I even get out of bed that morning?
“They can’t be dead,” I said. “The engine’s running.”
The lady shook the passenger by the shoulder. He fell back into his seat without a sound.
The lights turned green again. It was my last chance to run. The old lady would be in shock, she wouldn’t think to get my number, and I could have been out there and done with it. I turned off my engine and got out of the car. If they were dead I might get on the news.
The air suddenly filled with the sound of honking. Sydney drivers are crazy. They’ll risk you’re your death and theirs so they can race up to a red light and sit there waiting for it to change or they’ll hang around in a queue for ages doing nothing until someone honks their horn, then they all join in.
Ignoring the hooting and yelling from behind me I lent into the car and touched the passenger’s cheek. The cheek was warm. My index finger pushed at the side of his neck looking for a pulse – I couldn’t find one but I’m no expert in these things.
“What do you think?” the old lady raised her voice over the noise of car horns and radio. She had also leant into the car and was uncomfortably close.
“Can’t find a pulse,” I said and walked around to the other side of the car. The driver was warm and again there was no pulse. Reaching for the keys I turned the engine off and silenced the radio and leant down so my ear was near the driver’s mouth. Perhaps he was breathing, but I heard nothing.
The old lady asked, “Have you got a mobile phone? We should call for an ambulance.”
“No need,” I said looking up at her. Over her shoulder I saw a police car had pulled up behind mine. Trying not to look guilty I returned to my car and stood by the driver’s door. There was only one cop in the car, a woman. Looking very official she got out and surveyed the scene.
“What have we got here then?” she asked, looking directly at me.
The old lady stepped forward, “We need an ambulance. These two boys are dead!” She was very dramatic about it; one hand went to her mouth, the other to her forehead.
The police woman repeated my steps, searching for a pulse in each driver. She talked into her radio at the same time, a bunch of words that meant little to me. When she was done she asked, “Is any one else hurt? Ma’am?”
“No, I’m fine. More shocked than anything. Are they?”
“I think so, yes,” confirmed the police woman.
A vision of the day stretched before me. An ambulance would come to take away the bodies. The old lady and I would be taken to the local police station and questioned. The papers would find out about it and it would be all over the news. “Mystery Death on Broadway” the headlines would read. I was certain they would want to interview me for the 6 o’clock news and I would probably become a bit of a celebrity for a day or so, along with the little old lady. I shivered with glee.
Considering we were only half a block from the Hospital it seemed a long time before an ambulance arrived. The old lady’s name was Lynda. We were taken to the Newtown police station and gave our statements. That was it. I waited for my phone to ring, hoping to hear from Tracy Grimshaw at ‘A Current Affair’. I’d be very happy to be interviewed by Tracy.
My phone was silent.
I went to work and kept an eye on ‘The Sydney Morning Herald’ online. The story didn’t appear.
At home that night I watched as many of the news services as I could - nothing. The next day, and the next, there was no mention of the two young men found dead in their car, with the motor and radio running in peak hour traffic.
The police man who’d taken my statement had given me his card so I called him and asked if there were any leads into the deaths. He told me the case was closed and he was not able to comment any further.
It seemed my dreamed fame wasn’t to happen. I was driven to distraction and couldn’t get my work done so I took a couple of weeks off. I visited the hospital and told them the story about the two young men, I didn’t want any privileged information; just the location and date of the funerals so I could pay my respects. It was the least I could do, after all I was the one who found them. Technically it was Lynda, but I touched both of their dead bodies, I deserved to know when and where they were going to be buried. If not fame, then I needed closure!
They told me nothing. There was no record of fatalities brought in the previous Monday.
The situation has driven me crazy. I know I was there. I know they were dead. Why was no one answering my questions? Weeks have passed since I found them and you’d think the whole thing was some kind of hallucination.
I’ve written it all down. I’ve written it down so it’s out of my system. I’ll go back to work tomorrow and get on.
I should have spoken to Lynda, I should have asked her who she was and what she did, then I’d be able to track her down. She wasn’t really that old. There’s a chance I might bump into her again. Her car was yellow, small and neat.
Yellow, small and neat.
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