There’s a moment right before the end, a second of silence before the deafening crash. You brace for the inevitable. Sometimes it comes sooner than you want, but it always comes.
I spent Friday night lying on my back in an SUV. We had provoked an altercation with a semi. Earlier, in the fogged glass, a woman wrote, “I (heart) road trips.” Her words were shattered letters on the seat.
There I lay, head bleeding, looking up at the roof light, shivering while a cold wind blew through the broken doors. Was this it?
“Keep talking,” she said. “Keep talking to me.”
When there has been a traumatic accident, everyone wants to hear you speak. They want your life story, a childhood memory — anything to stay with them.
It’s a nice feeling.
Earlier in the week, I was leaning forward in an office chair. An interviewer spent more time answering questions than asking them. I matched his inflection. I was cocky.
“Here’s what I want,” I said. “Listen to me.”
We argued. I went into the interview with a bad attitude and left with one. I also left without a job.
I was pulled into an ambulance on a backboard and forced to stare at the lights above. I was surrounded by strangers who wanted nothing more than to hear me speak.
“Tell us something,” they said. “Tell us about yourself.”
I was wheeled into the hospital, put on a bed under the bright ceiling lights of the emergency room. The doctor shined a skinny pen into my eyes.
“How are you feeling?” he said. “Tell me how you feel.”
I felt awful. I had spent the last week thinking I was so damn important, and now, at a moment when everyone wanted to speak to me, I had nothing to say.
I did what any journalist would do. I asked questions.
On one cold night, I learned that Dr. Roy Bryan and his family of six call Africa their home. His last son was born with hippos braying through the window. His next is on the way. I was the first person to hear the good news.
I learned that the head nurse Leneda braved a storm to see Bon Jovi with friends. She said she believes strongly in the power of the human touch. She showed me a collection of camera-phone pictures of patients she wants to remember. She took a picture of me.
I learned that a woman who loves road trips and makes pit stops for 50-cent ice cream cones was more concerned about my health than her own. I’ll never forget that.
I didn’t get the job. I got something better. I came home to an inbox full of messages telling me I deserved the job. Although the dollar continues to decline, friendships will always appreciate. It’s currency easier spent, anyway.
I was in an accident. Everyone wants to know if it changed my life, if I feel the need to start “living my life to the fullest.”
It’s the exact opposite. I don’t want a lot of noise. I want the silence before the crash to last as long as it can. I want to spend time listening and letting the world speak to me.
I am just one small piece of glass in a big, foggy window. We are nothing without each other.
