A Flash of Proximity

I’m traveling to Oakland.  Apparently, even at 4:30PM, certainly well into the SF afternoon rush hour(s) traffic over the Bay Bridge, we can get across swiftly.  My driver pointed out to me that, “we’re right by the entrance to the bridge, so if we can just cut in here, its a quick hop into the final entrance."  And so it was.  I had been afraid of arriving late but it looked like we’d be early to this restaurant in Oakland that I’m heading toward. 

Off to the side, a flash of proximity from the left: bang.  A grey car minivan struck our vehicle and after righting itself, sped off ahead and disappeared on to the highway.  My driver was flustered and limped along to the side of the road where she considered the damage.  A car full of young people pulled up behind us and came to speak to us, which had me curious.  “He hit us too.  That’s why he swung over into you, as well.”  This enriched the narrative.  The guy must have really wanted to get away.  My driver offered that she’d be calling the police for help.  This car load of young people suggested they’d rather not have a conversation that involved the police and drove away. 

She was OK.  I was OK.  She was shook up though.  I offered to get another car, though I didn’t know where I was.  She’d already turned off the clock and ended the trip, but was kind enough to suggest bringing me the last five minutes to my destination.  The hold-message on the police hot line just continued, language, after language.  I heard Spanish, Cantonese, Mandarin.  Whatever your disaster. 

I stayed as a curtesy.   The dispatcher picked up after about seven minutes or so.  She was a consummate professional and she handled my driver's concerns, such as they were, deftly.  My driver was a bit disappointed that there wouldn’t be a cop coming to visit.  Rest assured Ma'am an officer will be looking for a “Grey SUV, that sped on to the highway.”  And it was clear to everyone involved that no one would ever find anyone in relation to this event. 

I could still feel the tension in my body suggesting a sudden over reaction on the part of the muscles when the car was struck.  I was still working to undo that constriction, suddenly imposed.  Fortunate really, that it was only this modest disruption rather than something more impactful and violent. 

I found my restaurant on Broadway in Oakland.  Carefully crossing the street, I considered this neighbourhood of marquee facades that must have been glamorous, before they were abandoned and now reclaimed.  My destination has no marquee.  The dining is informal.  A phenomenal wine list names four different dry whites from Croatia by the glass.  And I get a pint of soda water and wait at a huge table all by myself for a little while till my friend comes and introduces me to his remarkable wife.  Later I’m to the north in Berkeley, where I eat a bit more and talk for hours about what "China" thinks. 

Wednesday, 02/28/17