It was my 3rd or 4th day as a bike messenger in New York. It's the kind of job you don't want to do for very long, but to have experienced what it's like to make every day a race, every day a fight for your life, every day a lesson in the patterns of traffic and movement is something I consider infinitely valuable.
On that day, though, as I approached Park Avenue South from 6th avenue, I thought perhaps it wasn't worth it. On the corner, a fellow messenger was laying out, one hand still clutching the handlebar; his body and the bike frame locked in an impossible, pretzel-like embrace. I looked around for evidence of what hit him, but as the blood pool continued to form I knew the collision that mattered most was that of his head against the pavement.
Others were horrified and calling 911, so I just silently watched the puddle of red expand. It wasn't exactly an American Beauty moment, but there was an ominous tranquility in the silence of him and his machine, laying there in front of us like a temporary art installation designed to make you ponder your own life. I spent 10 minutes or so reflecting upon this, but I had a rush pickup to make, and with a final glance, rode off onto 59th Street.
Unknown "thoth" Ferocious
- 16 years, 12 months ago
