This week, I thought I’d focus on something pleasant: Death. In this case, mine. Not the one in my future, but a near-death experience in my past.
Back in ancient times, 1968, before I was a well respected, independently-wealthy writer, I owned a boat dealership with a partner, Ron. Our marine store was in the Midwest’s beating heart of outdoor water-sport country, Cicero, Ill.. Ron drove a Corvette, so to schlep boats, we’d been using my new trailer-hitched Cadillac. It was time for a company truck.
One Spring morning, Ron hurried in the showroom and told me to come out front. Parked on Cermak, Road in all its decaying glory, was what looked like a giant pile of cinnamon powder on wheels, but was actually a rusted 1960 Studebaker pick-up. While I walked around the object, Ron said it had a few problems: A dead starter, weak brakes, worn out clutch, bald tires, no lights, non-operational driver’s door with a non-operational plastic window, and a bunch of other et ceteras.
“I hope you didn’t pay too much,” I said
“Five dollars.”
“I knew you paid too much.”
The day came when a customer from south Chicago wanted his boat picked up for repair. I was deeply engrossed in making small pyramids out of spark plug boxes in the parts department, and because everyone else was busy, I was elected to get it. I slid across the seat in Dr. Kevorkian’s joy ride, then, as Ron and two mechanics pushed from behind, I popped the clutch and was on my way. I turned off Cermak on to Cicero Avenue and was going south.
In those days, there existed a long, steep, crumbling, concrete and brick bridge that ran over the railroad tracks from just past 31st Street to about 35th Street. I clattered up and over, admiring the broken pavement through a hole in the rotted floorboard between my feet as I journeyed southward. In an old garage on an alley, some place where God lost His shoes, was a monstrous, ancient, Chris Craft boat, its human owner and his friend. A veritable hernia ensued trying to attach the boat trailer to the truck’s hitch. Because the wooden beast sat too far forward on its trailer, a bunch of its weight was in front. What should have been an easy one-man job turned into a three-man gut buster. When the trailer tongue dropped on the hitch, the front tires of the truck hopped off the cindered alley.
Bouncing out of the alley and forging ahead to Cicero Avenue, I hoped, because the truck brake lights and trailer lights didn’t work, I wouldn’t run into any cruising cops.
With the truck already complaining about the weight of the heavy woodpile behind, I mustered as much speed as possible to conquer the Cicero Avenue bridge. The Studebaker struggled after a few seconds upward. About half way I downshifted to second, which helped for about seven feet. Glancing in the rearview mirror, I saw a line of disgruntled motorists behind me. I thought about my next life; even if I came back as a Dr. Scholl’s Odor Eater it wouldn’t be as bad. At least I’d have a career even in a poor job market.
The truck made the peak of the bridge, choking out its last breath, and began the descent. It picked up speed. I pushed hard on the brake, which didn’t even help psychologically. The truck was going too fast to downshift. I stood on the brake pedal and it broke through the floorboard and got stuck on the other side. I grabbed at the emergency brake handle, but it just dangled in the breeze, disconnected from anything except my current reality. The speedometer needle bounced wildly between 20 and 80. I figured I must be doing somewhere in the middle, maybe 50 to 60. I banged at the Plexiglas window with my elbow, hoping I could make some kind of hand signal. All I made was a bruised elbow.
With the boat and trailer bucking around behind me and the front end of the truck springing off the pavement in front of me, a new end-of-life threat loomed: The 31st Street traffic signal. Down there, it was green. Don’t change, don’t change! My chant was working. It was still green! Until, of course, I was within about 50 feet. Then it turned red. Dr. Scholl, here I come. Although my life passed before me, I vaulted through the intersection without hitting anything. With no hope of stopping in the near future, I banged up over the curb, bouncing and rattling along the truck-rutted parkway, finally coming to a stop in a block or so.
I sat for a couple of minutes trying to remember how to breathe. Steam hissed out of the radiator and my ears. In back, the Chris Craft had lurched itself to about a 15 degree angle from the forward position on the trailer. Fortunately, I had the sense to put my foot on the clutch so the engine wouldn’t quit. I dug the brake pedal out of the engine compartment with my right foot, put the truck in gear and hobbled back home.
After I crawled out through the passenger door of the death vehicle, I thanked my partner profusely for his wise purchase, then went into the office, pulled out a .38 and shot the truck. Not really. I shot my partner. No, not really. I grabbed my rosary, said a prayer, and strangled him with it.