Smithereens

Smithereens. I like that word. It conjures up visions of meteors smashing into small planets or in my neighborhood it’s the felon fleeing police around 2am, taking out everything on the street corner – the bench with concrete sides, the bus and street signs, and the garbage receptacle.

Huey Ron’s photograph from the Remax bench back advertisement lies in jigsaw puzzle pieces all over the street. An eye is here and a lip, there. A twisted rebar concreted chunk, of what was once the bench, ends up diagonally across the intersection, leaning against the church and another steadies itself on a bus stop pole across the closest street. Cars drive through the debris, their wheels sounding like they are stepping on glass Christmas balls.

I estimate the vehicle’s speed at 90mph prior to impact. Accident reconstruction. I studied the book until my friend, Mary Tyler, pointed out there was a dead body in my favorite photo.

I call the police’s non-emergency number. When mayhem explodes in my neighborhood in the middle of the night, the police will move the larger pieces to one side, but that is all. Dispatch connects me to the City of Oakland. I vaguely recognize the woman’s voice.

“Flora, Flora, is that you?” she asks.

“No, it’s me Driver,” I say.

“I thought you were someone else,” she says.

She promises to send a street sweeper. That’s always the answer it seems. I could call in a 3 alarm fire, and the city voice on the other end of the phone would say, “I’ll send a street sweeper.”

I accept the sweeper and raise her a crew with a torch. A pole is bent, blocking the handicapped ramp. She accepts the crew with a torch and raises me a debris truck. And then she asks, “How’d this happen?”

“Meteorite. I’m pretty sure,” I say. The phone is silent. I try again. “Probably a wreck. Middle of the night. I’ve seen it before.”

The last one was a motorcyclist, racing up the hill from the cops, only there were no cops. He went headlong into the bus bench. His shrine of miniature whiskey bottles and candles lay on the place where he was killed until the middle school kids walked on them, and turned the shrine into litter. Then, I threw it all out.

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5 Responses to “Smithereens”

  1. Hey, I like the post. I have deleted my blogs, but will start a new one in the near future.

    Steve

  2. I will miss The Red Squirrel. It was my favorite all time blog. I understand totally though. I get the urge to strike this one down occasionally too. It’s just a matter of time. Nothing like starting over with a new theme and background.

  3. Since moving out of Shooter’s World I’ve not seen any high speed chases, police with guns drawn, or choppers flying over the house with its search light pointed in my backyard lookin’ for perps. I think the thing that I hear and see a lot are ambulances, but I guess that’s no surprise when you live close to Sun City.

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