Police Chase

 

Tiny fragments of shattered green glass sprinkle the asphalt. I don’t think much of it as I march up Barrett for my morning walk. Then I see the Bike Lane sign, its metal pole completely smashed, lying on the sidewalk. What happened? Looks like a car, or even a truck, mowed it down.

            Coming down the steps of the big white house on the corner here at Barrett and 30^th street, is a slight woman, big straw hat on, bending for a moment to fuss with some gardening bags on the stairs.

            She glances down at me. I see an opening. “Hi, what happened here? Was there an accident?”

            Shaking her head, I can tell that there was. “Yes,” she says, sighing softly as she comes down the steps to stand with me on the sidewalk. “It was a police chase. The city of San Pablo police. Richmond police too.” She nods toward the spot of broken glass.

            “When was this?” I ask.

            “Sunday. They closed Barrett. You probably heard the sirens. Chased the guy until he crashed, throwing him into my yard.”

            “Oh my god! That’s terrible.”

            “Yes, it was. I went out and talked to the Richmond Police to ask what was going on and they told me it was the San Pablo police. That the Richmond police didn’t engage in chases.”

            “Well, that’s good to know,” I say, thinking how I’d read some article recently in the SF Chron about how there was a huge percentage of deaths attributable to police chases. Now here was one in my own neighborhood.

            “Yes,” she stares at the spot in her front yard. “I was going to do some revamping of the garden. Add some new succulents, some other things, but now….”

            Her voice trails off. Then she resumes. “I don’t think I’ll bother.”

            I can tell she’s been traumatized. And who wouldn’t be. I can’t imagine having a body thrown into my front yard from a police chase.

            “They did take him to the hospital,” she continues. “But he didn’t survive….”

            Again, her voice trails off. I think about all the death and destruction going on right now, here in my neighborhood and on a much larger scale with the fires in LA where dozens of people have died and 1000s of structures have burned. I read in the NYT today that the area burned so far is bigger than the city of San Francisco. And these fires are not even close to being contained. Plus, more high winds on their way later this week.

            What will become of our world with climate change, presidential felons, and police chases?

            I glance over at the orange chalked outlines on the asphalt. Where the body landed? Where the cars crashed? I shiver. Not just from the cold Diablo wind blowing, but from the horror of death right under my feet.

            “That sounds just horrible. You must be traumatized by this,” I say.

            “Yes…” She looks at the ground, then at me, her eyes brown and small beneath her straw hat.

            I don’t know what else to say now. It’s time to leave her in peace, if she can find any after such an event. “Well….” I try to smile, “take care…” I offer the cliché, knowing its ineffectiveness.

            “Thank you,” she says, turning to head back up the stairs to finish her task that I interrupted.

            Turning up 30^th street, I breathe deeply. The air is cold and the winds are fierce. I want to be inside my house, away from the violence of the world outside.

            Yet, when the grey tabby comes bouncing out to greet me, I stop and pick him up. “Hello, Whispo! Aren’t you the cutest!”

            He purrs and nuzzles. For a moment I’m in another place that only a cat can provide. After a few minutes, I put him down. He jumps up on my leg, meowing. I turn away and hurry down the street, the little cat following me for a moment before being distracted by a leaf.