Monthly Archives: August 2014
The Text Message
“Tammy,” Linda June typed with flying digits. “Running late! Can you tell Throckmorton that I’m picking up Dunkin for the office?” The new BMW X3 SUV swerved toward the on ramp’s right guardrail. A flick of a long-fingered, well-manicured hand, deftly corrected the bobble. Twelve hundred dollars worth of Michelin snow tires whined slightly from the strain of the rapid jerk to the left.
Linda June wasn’t an executive, but her husband was. As CEO of a locally based international insurance company, he wanted Linda June to have nothing but the best. He couldn’t understand her desire to keep her receptionist job at the aluminum tubing factory. At forty-three, Linda June could be spending her days lunching with the Garden Club ladies who comprised their social circle. Instead, she preferred to spend her days with the blue collars at Alum-a Flex, Inc., answering phones and keeping the coffee fresh for her bosses.
The cigarette in her left hand made it a little difficult to hang onto her iPhone 5 but she managed. She needed her right hand to guide the two-ton missile up the ramp and onto I-88.
Loud chiming told Linda June that Tammy was responding. Not wanting to miss Tammy’s acknowledgment of her tardiness notification, Linda June focused on the iPhone. For a moment she wished her arms were a bit longer, but by squinting she could make out the fuzzy “K” of Tammy’s response. She smiled to herself, knowing that her oversleeping fifteen minutes wouldn’t kill anyone.
Almost at the end of the on-ramp, Linda June focused on her iPhone and began typing with both thumbs.
In Alum-a-Flex’s break room. Tammy Lewis was grinding fresh Kona beans. The bosses loved the premium coffee she brewed. It was always ready when they arrived at 9:00 AM. She thought it strange that Linda June hadn’t responded to her “K”. Tammy smiled thinking how her friend always had to have the final word, talking or texting.
Eighteen-year truck driving veteran Ralph Morrison was close to the end of his daily Schenectady to Binghamton run. His dispatcher friend Rick, had given him a great load. He’d left the terminal in total darkness, at 5:30 AM, and he was only 15 minutes from backing up to the loading dock at Conklin Industrial Park. A real pro, Ralph was still fresh and alert. At forty-five, he was at the top of his game.
Ginger Rappaport had left Natick, MA at midnight. She was on her way to Scranton for a 1:00 PM job interview. She’d be in Scranton in an hour and had planned for a short nap to refresh, before dressing for the important appointment. Ginny was a little sleepy, and her thoughts were mostly on her 3 and 7-year-old boys, home in Natick. This new job would mean uprooting her older son from his elementary school. Ginny’s mom would miss having her 3-year-old grandson with her every day. Since that bastard David had headed for Florida with his 23-year-old bimbo, life had been tough. Ginny hoped Scranton would be the start of a much better life for her and the boys. She was only 35. She still had her looks, her redhead spunk, and hit the gym for two hours every other day. Most men she met thought she was”hot”, but she was not yet ready to get romantically involved.
Her daydreaming had taken her mind off checking the rearview mirror for the last couple of miles. She hadn’t noticed that an 18 wheeler had caught her. Ralph’s front bumper was beside her left rear door. Ahead, to her right, a silver SUV was slowly weaving up the entrance ramp.
Just as the eighteen-wheeler drew abreast of Ginny’s ten-year-old Taurus, the silver BMW swerved sharply to the left, directly in front of her.
There was a loud screeching of rubber skidding on concrete, as both Ralph and Ginger slammed on their brakes. The cacophony of screaming tires was instantly followed by the sickening sound of metal crunching and grinding against metal, as the three vehicles collided and began careening willy-nilly down the highway.
Ralph whipped his steering wheel to the left. His Peterbilt cab and fifty-five-foot trailer, loaded with 30,000 pounds of rolled paper, jack-knifed. Skidding out of control, the big rig slid in a giant “L” shape, off the highway into the grassy median, but remained upright. As it came to rest, Ralph grabbed his fire extinguisher and hit the ground running. The accident scene looked like a war zone.
A black older model Saab had been able to clear the debris, weaving its way through the wreckage. The driver pulled to the right, as far off the highway as possible, and hit his four-way flashers. He shut the engine off, silencing the Jimmy Buffett CD that was playing and dialed 911.
* * * * *
Broome Volunteer EMS and Colesville Fire Company Ambulances filled both Westbound lanes of the highway. Traffic had been re-routed off 88, at Exit 4 West. A white-coated Paramedic bent over a pretty redhead lying beside an upside-down ’02 Taurus, on a litter. There was a small trickle of blood on her left cheek.
“Your ID says you’re name is Ginger. You were knocked out for a few minutes, but I think you’ll be fine,” the medic said. “Your right leg may be broken, and you have some minor facial cuts that probably won’t leave any scars. I’ll just bandage your head, immobilize your leg, and put a collar on you for now. We’re taking you to Wilson Regional Medical Center, in Binghamton, unless you have a preference. Is there anyone you want us to call?”
“No,” She said. “My leg hurts, and I have a headache, but I’ll wait until I see how hurt I am before I call anyone. No need for them to worry.”
The silver BMW X3 was laying on its driver’s side in the driving lane, just past the end of the on-ramp. A pale, well-manicured hand was sticking out from under the crumpled roof. Glass particles and bits of plastic littered the road around the SUV. Steam was still billowing out from under the hood. A young female State Trooper stood behind a solemn-faced Paramedic who was slowly rising to her feet. The Paramedic frowned at the officer and shook her head slightly.
“She’s still holding a cigarette and her cell phone,” the Paramedic pointed toward the hand. “Looks like she was texting.”
Trooper Brenda Delgado bent over the exposed hand. She saw that the clenched fingers were, indeed, still holding a broken cigarette and an iPhone. She read the partial message on the phone’s bright display. Linda June’s final texted words were, “Thanks, Ta….” A message that would never be sent.
Two pink rollbacks bounced across the median. The drivers, Richard and Ryan, looked grim as they unloaded shovels and brooms to clean up another too familiar Interstate crash site.
“Probably texting, or something,” Richard said.
“Yeah, probably,” Ryan replied. “When they gonna learn?”
D'Pyrate's Plank 