Daredevil Trucker

Wednesday, June 11, 2008

It is approximately 2:25… AM. My parents and I have just been awakened by loud, squealing tires and a sickening jolt of crunching metal and shattering glass.

Looking out the window, we see a single headlight shining up from our neighbor’s ditch. I believe it is a car; my parents say it used to be a motorcycle. Apparently, the driver must have incredible agility, because he was able to get out of that death-trap unscathed (but apparently not agile enough to turn a simple corner… but who can turn 90° going 90+ miles an hour?). He is currently hopping up and down. And–yes, another person (probably a friend who is throwing some drunken party that the vehicle-crasher was steaming to) is coming down the road. The headlight goes off, whether automatic or manual I do not know. The two people walk off together around a bend in the street and pass from sight.

My parents go back to bed. I’ve decided to stay up and watch if anything happens.

After a few minutes, a person comes running stealthily down the road from the direction that the two others walked. He looks around the truck, crawls to the cab, and appears to take something out of it. Beer, perhaps? Or something worse? He runs off back down the street.

EDIT—
3:02 AM – Nothing further has come to pass. I decide to lightly rest.

3:54 AM – Bright lights explode through my bedroom. They pulse in a blue hue, jolting me awake. I realize that I’m not alone… a tall figure is standing over me. “Get up!” It says. I, being still sleepy and not fully awake, tense.

“Who are you!?” I ask this in my coolest, dead-pan snarl. The figure takes an involuntary step backwards.

“I’m your sister!” I feel rather foolish, but with crazy drunken drivers riding around (and egging people’s houses… but that is for perhaps another post), one can never be too careful.

We look out my window to see a police car with the brightest blue, flashing lights parked by the wreck. A large lorry is hooked up to the crashed vehicle, trying to pull it out of the ditch. In the dark, all I can see is a metal frame. I had been right. This was no motorcycle. With a slow, grinding pull, the chains retract. The metal heap raises up, flipping solidly over. It was a pickup-truck, flipped entirely in the ditch. A friendly tree had caught it, preventing a roof cave-in. However, the front of the truck looks like a scrawled V, crunched from a pipe sticking out in the ditch. The windshield is shattered. After some maneuvering, the truck rests on the lorry. A policeman and the lorry-driver talk some; they are joined by a third random man who appears out of the dark. The police- and random-man get into the trooper car and follow the lorry off down the street.

EPILOGUE—
The next morning broke without too much flurry. That is, until I called our neighbors who own the ditch. They had slept solidly through the entire affair. The entire family (and visiting relatives) come trooping out to inspect the damage. I join them on their property and related my observations. The ditch is ground up, with deep tire tracks looping up out of them. Apparently, the driver lost control, skidded all across the road, flew into the ditch, and hit the concrete pipe going at least 45 miles an hour (personal estimation). Any ornaments on that side of the ditch are now destroyed, and dirt is thrown up around deep rivulets. The friendly tree has lost a limb, it seems. An electric box was missed by a mere six inches.

Who crashed? Why were they out speeding at 2:25? What will their parents do about it? Perhaps we will never know.

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