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"Over the rail, you old fuck'n bastard!" - Fate Fairies - book version
This entry was posted on 1/24/2012 2:00 AM and is filed under Fate Fairies:Fate Fairies - book version.
I was working at the old newspaper building in downtown Janesville. I took the job my last semester of grad school in 2005 hoping it might be a springboard into better things. Silly me, the economy dumped and, I learned the hard way I was already too old to be put to good use in this "New Norm" culture of perennial shitty jobs. But I digress early in this vignette.
The production plant, loading dock, and printing press room was on the side of the editorial building in those days. They later built a new production plant (where us expediters were ushered off to) on the east edge of town, but the old editorial building is still there and the writers, editors, radio station, Web page, and who-ever-people still work down town.
Every time I drive by that old building I think of the time that just trying to get there almost got me killed. The old building is only about three miles from my house. Trying to keep a good spirit and the blood flowing during a rapidly deteriorating economy and city, I often rode my bicycle to work.
I could head right down the main artery of Milton Avenue to downtown which was about that three-mile jaunt; but, it was a tight, busy, and a dangerous route for a bicycle. So, I would often cross Milton Avenue and divert down the quieter Black Bridge Road past the City Dump. Then take a left on old Parker Dive - and a straight shot to the old newspaper building but adding an extra mile on the journey.
By 2005, I was already 50 years old. The bike riding was either commendable or..., stupid.
Back in the early 1990s, I had bought two nice Trek bicycles. One for Heide, one for me. In the mid-2000s I still used mine as it was and still is a solid multi-purpose vehicle. On the way to work it was all down hill heading toward the Rock River Valley which weaved through down town. The multi-geared bike is handy on the tough climb back home up the hills.
The only tight spot in my diversion route was my entrance to Parker Drive by the old Parker Pen building - another monument to jobs being sent to China - but I digress again. By Parker Pen, traffic clogged a bit as that was where Highway 51, an artery bringing traffic in from the north, became Parker Drive. Once I was past the Parker Pen building it was a rather comfortable ride straight into work.
By 2007 I had jumped from driving a van full of daily newspaper bundles for the distribution department, to a job in the production center working with the process of assembling the product - newspapers. And about half the time, they also had me driving around their old short-box truck delivering bundles of papers. Although the holder of three college degrees, I could not shake the moniker of..., fucking "driver."
To the company's credit, I had taken several sabbaticals to do university and media projects in Vietnam, Laos, Turkey, and to that point in my life, even one in Iraq. So realistically, I should perhaps be grateful they kept letting me come back to work.
Although the journeys overseas were arduous, I had basically survived relatively unscathed. And, the caveat here is then that old cliche, "Most accidents happen near home."
On the morning in question (we still worked days back then in the production center, but later shifted to nights) I made the left turn onto Parker Drive at that point having two lanes in each direction; the traffic was busier than usual. The descending hill by the dump carried me with momentum well into Parker Drive. To my left, going the same direction as me, an 18-Wheeler was in the lane near the center line and cars were whizzing past me on his right in my lane. To my right was a guard rail and a stony slope below heading down to houses along the river.
Some bone head slammed on her brakes in front of the 18-wheeler to turn left into the old Parker Pen lot - some small businesses were using the old building. The 18-wheeler slammed on his brakes to avoid a rear end collision, but his truck veered to the right into my lane. The car next to me then encroached on me to avoid being side-swiped by the truck and I could feel the side of the car on my leg. By then we were all going about 35 miles per hour.
Over the guard rail and down the rocky slope, I and my old reliable old bicycle went.
I was so pissed off, I did not focus on still being alive, but rather jumped up, flipped off every one concerned, and shouted every expletive in my vast blue-collar repertoire. No one stopped to see if I was ok - eyes straight ahead, white knuckles clenching on steering wheels, all.
As I brushed myself off and checked my bicycle for damage, it began to dawn on me that except for my bruised ego, both I and machine were none-the-worse-for-wear. For a moment I smiled at my little brush with fate.
Then I heard an old voice from a house below. It sounded like an old female voice, but strong and firm like maybe an old farm wife, or factory worker, or salty lake area soul. I turned and saw an old gray-haired woman leaning on a cane as she stood on her back porch and waved at me.
"Are you alright, sonny?"
Note: This blog "Fate Fairies" - book version Category is a work in progress. The original vignettes are being edited for book form. Go to the Cooldadiomedia Web site and the Fate Fairies Page for an ordered chronology of the book vignettes (chapters).
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