The Driver and The Witness

I heard a man get run over by a van on Tuesday, after the drama club. I would have seen it if I hadn't been turned towards one of the drama kids, asking her some stupid question about the weekend, as she watched the old man in the cross walk fall beneath the tires. A dull thud-thud. Like speed bumps. As simple sounding as a car going over speed bumps. One thing I have not been able to get used to is the reckless way the majority here drives. I no longer mind if you don't smile at me on the street or make room for me to easily pass on the sidewalk. I don't care if you push in front of me in line or give me chewing gum instead of correct change. But, for the love of anything, slow down. After it happened, the man immediately started trying to get up, looking embarrassed and in the way. Like it was his fault. He rolled from left to right, trying to figure out which side he could easily get up on. A small crowd had formed, including the driver of the van, and within a few minutes the man was standing and, very very slowly, moving towards the sidewalk. His leg was obviously broken. One of the kids I was with had already dialed the police (112 here, not 911) and soon enough, sirens and swirling lights were flooding the area. Things were going to be ok. Now, a few days after it happened, I like to think of the old man sitting in a warm bed with a fresh cast around his shin and a relieved family doting over him. Vanilla ice cream speckling his smiling chin and his favorite movie playing in the background. At the same time, somewhere in the city, at least two people are hearing a thud-thud in their dreams, disturbing their sleep and disrupting their thoughts.