Tuesday, February 6, 2001
Price of hubris, perhaps. The guy who just harangued you about driving
safety got run down last night, on his bicycle. I was making a left
turn with a green arrow. The opposite-facing traffic was doing what
they always do, namely turning right by just blowing through the red
light, onto the wide shoulder. I was also in the left of two left-turn
lanes—because, hey, it was moving a little faster—and had to
merge back right over to the shoulder. I looked behind me, noted the
large Mercedes blazing around the corner, but still, I thought, well
behind me; I signaled; then veered to the right.
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I got back to Palo Alto before the bike shop closed, and dropped off the
broken, but unbowed, machine. Then I walked to the Emergency
Room—really just as a precaution. I mean, I felt fine; but, then,
I did just bounce off a 500-series Mercedes at high speed. I also
stopped at the store along the way to pick up four bottles of Sam
Adams, and a secondary container, because, A) I
felt like I deserved a drink, and B) ever since New Years Eve 1996—when
I suffered a bad ankle sprain, and Alex took me to the ER, and then kept
me in vodka, while Liz and Lesli sat around drinking champagne without
us—I've had a strong preference against enduring long emergency
room waits sober. In addition to the beer, I also had my notebook in
hand . . .
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There are now no cell phones allowed in the hospital, so
I step outside to the ambulance ramp to call Sara again—mainly to
tell her that I can't call her, as promised. She indicates she's been very
adrenalized since my original call, from the train platform, in a sort
of next-of-kin sympathy state of shock. Coming back in, I notice
there's a pay phone I could have used. The guy using it,
I hear him recount, has crushed the tips of his fingers in a
garage door. Now, sitting there in my blaze-yellow cycling jacket,
I suddenly feel like I'm in the waiting room for the recently
deceased in Beetlejuice—you know, the guy with the snake on his
arm, the shark attack victim, etc.
After being triaged, I'm told I'm in for a two-hour wait. I figure my
resolve will hold just as long as the beer—or, rather, the
buzz—holds out. To fill the hours, I read Leon Uris's
Exodus, a Christmas gift from Matt. Like The Hajj (which was
a years-ago gift from my grandparents), it is about the creation of the
state of Israel. I've come to realize that Uris is a pretty crap writer;
but this is such
an amazing story that it almost doesn't matter. Right now, Uris
recounts the uprising, and destruction, of the Jewish fighters in the
Warsaw ghetto. 500,000 Jews were sent in; 90% of them had been taken
away to the death camps before the remainder really realized what was
happening. Smuggling in a few small arms via the underground sewers, making
molotov cocktails, they staged a defense. And three times they drove
the heavily armed and armored German troops from the ghetto, who were
finally forced to level the ghetto with artillery, and go through the
basements with flamethrowers and poison gas. The Jews fought to the
last person (many women fought alongside the men). This is all
stirringly documented in Israel
Gutman's Resistance, The Warsaw Ghetto Uprising.
Now, I'm trying to remember the collision itself—but it is somehow
slipping away from me. At the time it was so vivid; I remember
everything slowing to train-wreck speed as me and the car impacted. I
sort of simultaneously slid along the left side of the car, bounced off
it, and flew over the handlebars. I seemed to be spectating, as well as
participating, and I vividly remember thinking, "DAMN. This is a pretty
serious accident, happening right here." I hit the blacktop, on my
right side. I'm guessing I fell pretty well, rolling out of it (due to
the fact that I'm sitting here pretty much unhurt, telling you about
it). As I came to rest, I generated a quick damage report ("all systems
seem to be functioning"), then a quick assessment of my new
situation—which was that I was lying in the middle of a six-lane
road, in danger of being run over. I grabbed the bike and
skedaddled to the curb. Several witnesses pulled over, and one fellow
noted, "I've never seen anyone bounce off the ground so fast—you
must have had some serious adrenaline." I said, "No, I just hate to be
hit by more than one speeding car in a given evening." Amazing how the
mind draws out time when it really needs to.
The woman who ran me over very thoughtfully gave me a lift to the train
station. We made small talk, and in between it, I sat
there slack-jawed, wondering when I was going find some hidden, dire injury.
I called Sara from the platform, sharing my amazement that I was still
here, just standing here. On the train, I sort of walked around, just
looking at everyone searchingly.
Now, in the ER, trying to read—but the hand holding my book is
trembling like a beast. A very nice doctor comes out, to try and get a
better feel of how I'm doing. I indicate my belief that I'm
okay—but this is of course a lay opinion. She notes that they are
slammed tonight, but will try to work me in. I go back to my book; but
five seconds later, I find myself laughing out loud, uncontrollably. "I
just bounced off a two-ton vehicle going 40 mph," I think. "And I'm
still right here! Ha ha ha, you bastards! Bring a cement truck next time!
You pansies!"
The thing is, I know that riding a
bicycle in freaking Santa Clara, up and down Great America Parkway, in the
dusk, is just stupid. Moreover, I despise my work and the
people I do it for—yet I risk life and limb daily to go do it for them.
I've realized that Netfish is not worth risking one night of riding
in the traffic down here. (Well, maybe just a few more; it looks
like we're being acquired, meaning those stock options of mine might not
end up as wallpaper, after all . . .)
Distracted, I spot a New Yorker on an endtable. Much to my delight,
it contains a fairly infamous article: "My Fake Job," by Rodney
Rothman. This guy wanted to see if he could masquerade as an
employee of a Silicon Alley dot-com. He just waltzed in one day, picked
out an empty desk (they'd just laid off fifty people), and claimed to be a
"junior project manager," transferred from "the Chicago satellite office."
He wrote email, chatted on the phone while nodding gravely, and invited
his friends over for meetings in the glass-walled conference rooms.
He stayed twelve days, finally noting, "Free massages. Free beverages.
Companionship, flirtation, E-mail access. No disruption, no phone calls,
no meetings, no boss, no questions, no decisions to make. A perfect job,
perfectly undisturbed by having a job."
From the PA system: "Kim—this
is Jason. I want to know if you'll marry me." Then repeated, just like
that. I hear applause from the back, which I assume indicates a positive
response.
As I finally, blessedly, three hours later, sit in an exam room, I
think to root through my saddlebags—and I'm beyond delighted to
discover that my Costa del Mar EL-11 "Eliminators" survived with nary a
scratch. They never even left my head, as I flew ass over teakettle off of that car. Man, I love these
shades.
The doctor points out how lucky I am; and suggests that I
should see the other cyclist who got brought in tonight . . .
I feel like I should be busy hating, and further declaiming against
cars. Or railing at my stupid job for dragging me down here, into
jeopardy. But, I tell you, from the minute I got off the pavement, I've
found I just can't be mad about anything. My one, fragile,
irreplaceable body is still in my hands, and working one hundred
percent. (Albeit with a few abrasions and strained muscles.) What have
I got to be mad about?
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As regards the title of the last "dispatch" (scare quotes are called
for, given that I'm dispatching a great deal for a guy who hasn't gone
anywhere): I belatedly realized what that phrase means! I'd
never got it before! Self-righteousness is not the unforgiveable sin
because it's somehow that much more awful than all the other ones. It's
the unforgiveable sin because its very nature simply precludes
forgiveness! To be forgiven, you have to be penitant, to acknowledge
you've done wrong. The self-righteous person feels nothing of the sort.
He's perfectly in the right, in his mind! And, thus, unforgiveable.
Stop me if you already knew all that.
From: fuchs@michaelfuchs.org
To: fuchs@ies.ac.at (Erin Fuchs),
Pitely@MARYWOOD1.MARYWOOD.EDU (Mark Pitely)
Cc: homonculous@mindspring.com (Matt Grabowy)
Subject: "Uh . . ."
Date: Thu, 1 Feb 2001 22:02:09 -0800 (PST)
Matt has pointed out the blindingly obvious:
We are going to be in Rome for Easter Weekend.
Yee-hah! Round up them doggies [tourists]!
Well, *I* say we have the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to go to
Easter Mass at Basilica San Pietro. Stick that in your Fodor's.
mf
