Short Story # 1

Officer Johnson

“301 on 95th street need a response car on it.”

“Car 617 on its way,” I say. 301 is a pedestrian car crash. I have seen way too many of those with my time on the force. In a city like New York City, no one stops when you cross the street, I would know, I’ve been hit in a hit and run. That is why I joined the force, to put criminals behind bars. I know it sounds corny, but that is the real reason I joined the force. I flip the switch. Sirens sound and I push the gas peddle. Cars move to the side as I approach. Soon the dashed lines seem to become one solid off white line that seems to go on forever.

I arrive to the scene. I’m the first officer on the scene. My eyes move rapidly across the crash. Looks like one victim, female, 20 to 25 years of age, blonde with blue eyes, petite, only about 115 pounds at most. Car is a 2006 Porsche, a driver and passengers are out of the car. Car has front bumper damage from impact. My feet carry me over to the victim. She is sitting up now, but looks clearly flustered. I go up to her, she seems coherent, but seems in obvious pain.

“Hi, what’s your name,” I say.

“Ryan Young,” she says with a grimace on her face.

“Do you remember what happened to you,” I say.

“Not really,” she said. “All I remember is that I was walking across the street, and I saw bright lights, and then all I remember is waking up and my head was throbbing.”

“Alright, the ambulance just got here, just head over there and they will bring you too the hospital.” I say. I help her up and walk her to the ambulance. Next, I look at the drivers. They look nervous, eyes bouncing from thing to thing. The man has sweat coming down from his brow, possibly showing stress. The woman pops in a piece of gum quickly as she sees me glaring at her. I figure she was drinking; most people only chew a new piece of gum after an accident because there is the reeking smell of liquor on their breath. I walk over to them quickly, hoping to get the truth out of them into really what happened.

Janice

“George, give me the damn keys, you’re too drunk to drive,” I say to my husband. He is a big guy, 6’2”, 250 pounds, brown eyes. He was a former football player at USC, which is where I met him, because we were both students at the time. He decided to go pro but his career ended quickly with an injury to his ACL, which ended his career forever. Since then football playing has been turned into beer drinking for him. Every night and day he seems to drink to no end. He says since he makes guest appearances as a public speaker at the college, he doesn’t need a job. So as long as he is sober at the appearances that is all he needs. He hands me the keys.

“Fine, if you thank yo cun drive, then you cun dribe,” he says. As usual, he has obviously had more than just one too many.

“Get in the damn car George,” I say. We both get in the car, I adjust the seat. I’m only 5’4”. I start driving out of our friend’s driveway, away from the party scene. I turn my wheel to the right and press the gas. The roads are kind of busy, not traffic, but there are cars passing by. They keep flashing their bright lights at me. Why the hell are they flashing their lights? Damn it, I forgot to turn on the car lights. I pick up my speed, as I get closer to our New York City apartment. As I get closer to our New York City apartment, I increase my speed. I turn left onto 95th street, pretty fast. Whoa! I get a little light headed. Its okay I’m almost home, I’ll be fine. The lines now seem to double. Why are there four lanes instead of two? I blink for a second, trying to clear my head. I hit something, the noise is loud, it even wakes up my half passed out husband. I slam my foot on the break. My body jerks forward; I slam my head on the steering wheel. I get out of the car.

“Oh my god, that lady is dead,” I hear from a distance. I hurriedly look around. It is a passer by witness.

“Shit!” I yell. I stumbly run over to the girl. I feel for her pulse. I can’t find it. My heart is pounding; I’m getting even lighter headed. I find a pulse! “Someone call 911,” I yell. Another watcher pulls out his cell phone and calls. She is breathing now, her hand is twitching, and she starts to sit up. A person comes running up. “I’m and EMT, let me help,” this man says. I back up and go stand next to my husband. He seems nervous and in such shock. A police officer comes on the scene. The EMT gets up and stands back as the police officer walks over to the young girl. He goes over to her and talks to her for what seems like an eternity. He walks the girl over to the ambulance that had arrived. I check my breath. It smells horrible. The officer will smell it 100 feet away. I take out a piece of gum; he is looking at me, crap. He is walking over to me and my husband.

“Were you two in the car,” he asks.

“Yes we were officer,” I said.

“Who was the driver,” he asks with a death glare.

“It was me officer, my husband was the passenger, he was too drunk to drive,” I admit, figuring he can just tell my husband is drunk.

“Did you have anything to drink mam,” he asks me.

“Yes, but just two glasses of wine, but I was fine to drive,” I tell him. I thought I was okay to drive wasn’t I?

“I’m going to need to give you too breathalyzer tests, you too,” he says. We agree. He gives us both the test. My husband is over the limit by a lot. I myself am just legally drunk.

“You two are going to have to come with me,” he says. He handcuffs both of us and puts us in the back of the squad car. He gets into the car and we slowly drive “downtown”.

Ryan

There is a light shining right into my eyes. I’m so tired. I look around, the walls are white, needles are hooked into both my arms, and monitors are everywhere. I’m in a bed, a hospital bed. The door swings open with a loud screech, and a young lady in blue scrubs with piercing green eyes looks at me.

“How are you feeling,” she asks.

“Where am I,” I asked. “What happened?”

“You got hit by a car and passed out in the ambulance, and you had surgery,” she explains.

“For what?” I say with a confused expression on my face. Just then my mom rushes in the room hysterical.

“Oh my god Ryan, my baby, what happened”, she asks, tears rolling down her rosy cheeks. The nurse explains what she had said to me so far, my mom cries even more, which starts to make sure me tear up. Then, the nurse continues.

“We had to give you a brain scan to check for concussion damage. You did have a mild concussion, but we found something else.” She pauses, biting down on her lower lip. My mom is squeezing my hand with the force of an ape right now.

“Sadly, you had a brain tumor on your brain.” She stops talking. Tears, stream down my face now, my mom even more hysterical than before is in full sobbing mode. “Fortunately Ryan we removed the tumor from your brain and you will be fine at least for now. It may come back, but for now you will be fine. If you didn’t get hit by the car ironically, you might have never realized you had the tumor though, and honestly Ryan… you could have died.”

My mom and I are both sobbing now, but are also in shock. I almost died from a brain tumor, but getting hit by a car saved my life. This was so ironic; I couldn’t help but cry more. The nurse then tells us she is going to give us some time alone. My mom then stares into my eyes, wiping her emotion from her face.

“I don’t know what I would do without you,” my mom says to me.

“I hope you never have to mom,” I tell her between sobs. I then look around and realize I’m still alive. For some reason I am still alive, but I don’t know why. There seems like there was no reason for me of all people to live. Me, a little person from NYU who wants to become a writer and has been a swimmer since I was young, lived. I am one of the few who live through this of all people. This is all too much for me, I turn on the television, and the news is on. My mom and I watch the television to keep our minds at ease. Breaking News flashes across the screen.

“Breaking News. Hi, I’m, Mikayla Jackson for CNBC Nightly News. Two people were killed today in a car crash on their way home from jail shockingly. George and Janice Norman spun out of control and hit a building in their Porsche. They died on impact.”





I look at my mom and wonder, what if that was me?