He felt first the surprise of impact; he saw the head of the driver snap back,
his hands raised in the air a little theatrically. The lanes beside his kept moving;
vehicles behind him tried to manoeuvre out of his lane, honking in frustration at
what his apparent carelessness had caused.
The driver approaching him wore a baseball cap and sneakers; his shirt was
unbuttoned; he seemed not to mind the cold temperature; he had a beer
drinker's belly and a very annoyed manner. Radix watched him, ready to admit
it was all his fault, waiting for the first indication of how the matter would be
resolved.
He sensed someone else watching: across the road, standing on the cracked
asphalt, a man and a ferocious looking dog. He was dressed in a grey sweat suit;
his face under the hood looked grizzled, gaunt. His dog sniffed the grass and
tugged at the leash, wanting to move on; but the man wasn't ready. Radix caught
his eye, felt his anticipation of something dramatic about to happen.
Meanwhile the driver had inspected his rear bumper which looked dented but
was otherwise intact. Radix' vehicle had gotten the worse of it, a smashed head-
lamp; and as he tried to gauge the extent of the damage the man raised his arms
in a gesture of disbelief and anger.
He came up to Radix, "What the fuck?"… staring, waiting…"What the fuck?";
then he walked back to the front of his car and reached inside, for a cigarette
pack.
Though not threatening this behavior left Radix uneasy.The man lit his
cigarette and with his arms bracing the car appeared to be pondering his
options. At intervals he said "Shit" with strange vehemence, as if building up
emotional steam. He seemed to be waiting for Radix to say something, and
Radix knew that the tone and choice of his first words would determine what
happened next.
He glanced at the man with the dog across the street. He could feel the man's
knowingness, his amused appraisal: Like fish out of water… Don't know what
the fuck you're doing, right fella? He looked back down the road, at miles of
backed up traffic. People driving by gave him quick looks of fury. A wind gust
sent dust in his face.
A woman's voice from the man's car, screamng "For chrissakes, Angelo, shut
the door!" shifted his attention from Radix. He answered her in Spanish. They
had a fierce rapid exchange, the accident forgotten for the moment; then the
woman got out and came around to inspect the damage.
She moved briskly as if accustomed to taking charge in mishaps like this, when
her man wasn't sure what to do; and she smiled at Radix and commiserated, "Hey,
it's not so bad…could have been worse." Then in a firm tone she said, "Get in
the car, Angelo," annoyed, muttering "…the fuck outta here."
Angelo came back to inspect his bumper one more time. He pointed and shook
an unhappy finger at Radix: "You better learn how to fucking drive!" And with
that the matter was settled – the man getting into his vehicle, moving off with
sharp loud revs, daring anyone to hit his car again.
(from "Ah Mikhail, O Fidel!" a novel by N.D.Williams, 2001)
FARJOURNEY CARIBBEAN 