FW: WHOA IS ME! STOP!

It’s visible to me seven days a week, but I don’t really see it. Either I drive or walk past it, twice a day. The sign is on the corner or Plover and Collins. It is supposed to be a bright red STOP sign that is faded and only reads ‘OP’. It has to be replaced. I know that. Everyone must know that, but I don’t make the call, write the letter and assume no one else has either. The intersection has traffic, but not much. It is patrolled by condo directors and sheriffs. They don’t take care of it either.

 

Today is gorgeous. It pleads with me to take a brisk walk before doing my chores, driving to the super market. I acquiesce.  My attention is not on the sign but on a black Subaru going one way and a biker crossing its path. The car faces the faded sign and the biker has the right of way, or did until now.

 

I hear no screeching tires but see the young man fly in the air, slam into a ficus tree near the curb and drop on the grass. The shocked driver doesn’t get out of her car. A white Volvo behind her slams on his brakes. The driver jumps out of his car, cell phone in hand and is already dialing 911. The blood and twisted body scare me. The boy seems to be breathing shallowly. There isn’t much I can do but manage to take off my jacket and my blouse, use the blouse to wrap around the bloody leg, and then just hold the still warm hand.

 

The perpetrator remains in her car, her arms around the steering wheel, her head cradled on top. Her sobs can be heard where I am with the boy. Some cars stop, tying up the corner traffic, delaying the ambulance from getting in. Three sheriff cars, sirens screaming, arrive, let the cars drive across the median strip to get out of the way. The medics attend to the injured boy and I never see him again. I am taken aside and interviewed as I am the only witness. Two officers approach the driver who caused the accident, treat her more kindly than I think she deserves, and take her to headquarters. Her car is impounded.

 

Neighbors are now coming from out of the woodwork. They gape and ask questions of each other. A loud scream comes from a woman who sees the blood and the destroyed bike and knows whose bike it is. She gives his name and address to a sheriff. I am told I can leave and do so.

 

My nerves are on edge and all I want to do is get inside my building, lie down on my sofa to pull myself together. I try it but it doesn’t help. I open my computer and email a letter to the Editor about the faded sign and condemn all of us who have passed it many times without complaining about it. Zip it is cyberspace bound and I go directly to my phone to call the sheriff’s office, the traffic department, the roads commissioner.  Each place makes note of my complaint and thanks me.
I feel that at least I have done something. If only I had done it sooner.

 

Yes, I chastise myself and do so every day until two months later when the sign is replaced with a bright red, fresh ‘STOP.’