My Monday Night: A True Story

By Me, with a Hemingway spin <3

On a dark, cold night, an old man crosses a street. His street-crossing isn't particularly fast-paced. In fact, it's extremely sluggish and tired. He pushes a wheelchair as a crutch for practicing this walking thing. He's pretty focused on the walking thing. He's focused to the point of losing touch with his surroundings. By the time he reaches the midpoint of the journey across the street (and the first half takes a good few minutes as it is), he's really focused.

A silver Camry struts along toward the T-intersection across which the man snails. Inside, two ladies calmly chat about their days and their weeks and their futures and their presents and their pasts. A dark figure appears in the road. The driver reacts to the presence of the figure by bringing the car to a stop and waiting for the old man to cross. A few seconds later, it hits them.

A car hits them. The lady in the car didn't slow down, but she keeps saying that she saw the old man too. It's all her fault, she says. Here's my information, she says.

Here's ours, the two ladies say.

Here's the old man's information, the silver Camry's passenger says. He's a little gone. He was just out for a walk to practice walking. He just came from dinner with his family. He doesn't have an answering machine.

All ladies enter their cars and go on their way. The old man continues walking. The two ladies in the silver Camry go to Urgent Care to check their necks. The passenger is having neck, jaw, and head pain. The driver is too. The passenger of the silver Camry continues having minor neck, jaw, and head pain. Her arms hurt too and she can't lift heavy objects.

The next day, the insurance calls. The lady who hit them said she didn't know who's fault it was, they say. That figures, says the driver of the silver Camry.