TheBanyanTree: The Street

[Terri W.]

He was just crossing the street.  Maybe running down to Trader Joe's, on the other side of the crosswalk .  It was a little after 5 pm on a lovely Saturday.  A light jacket was enough.  Traffic was neither particularly heavy or light -- it's a popular area there.  Two high-end grocery stores face each other.  Two sidewalk cafes.  A cheese shop.  A gay bar.  A hair salon.  A very old shoe repair shop.

It's Silver Lake.  This neighborhood was bohemian and artsy and gay when I moved here fifteen years ago.  Now it is white, with pregnant people towing toddlers around.  Gentrification.

He was just crossing the street.  Trader Joe's fought long and hard to get that crosswalk put in.  Too many people were crossing there with no protection, negotiating six lanes of traffic on their own.  Recently, the Captain of Trader Joe's, a man who is very experienced and knowledgeable, but so shy he rarely looks anyone in the eye, he had a series of confrontations with the local city councilman, Tom LeBonge..  The Captain insisted on a traffic light here.  In the middle of the block.  He's been fighting for it for years.  I saw recently that it was scheduled to be installed this spring.

I work at Trader Joe's on the weekends.  Full health insurance for 20 hours a week, discount groceries, and great people-watching.  Last week we put up with dust from road improvements in front of the store.  New tar and newly-painted lines.  The crosswalk, with its diagonal SEE ME thick grid, is pristine white. Yesterday morning, when I reached behind the Captains' Desk for a piece of tape, I spied a yellow post-it note with the Captain's scrawl: "LeBonge -- blinking lights along crosswalk."  The next community over has lights blinking all along a crosswalk when someone is using it.  Pretty crucial when the road is busy and wide.

My friend and co-worker, Adam, was on his ten-minute break, having a smoke outside.  He heard the collision.  It sounded like a vehicle hitting a brick wall.  But it was a white Range Rover, hitting the young man.  The young man was airborne for almost 60 feet, and landed in the middle of the street like a pile of soiled clothes.

Adam was the first person to him.  The man was barely concious.  Adam put his hand on his head and told him over and over to hang on, help was on its way.  The young man stopped breathing twice.  Adam said every one of his ribs had to be broken, and some of them must have pierced his lungs.  "Hold on, buddy, you're gonna be fine, hear 'em coming?  They're here now."

It took less than two minutes for EMTs to get there. Six people called 911.   The firehouse is two blocks away.  Convenently located aross from the assisted living facility.  It's an old, old neighborhood, now revitalized.

They loaded the young man on the stretcher.  Adam and Dan, on the curb, came back into the store and got some lunch.  My lunchtime coincided with theirs, so I heard the whole tale again and again.  I finally left them alone in the Galley.  I know they had to talk about it again and again, but I didn't have to hear it any more.

Adam's face was still in a sweat, his eyes bright.  He's about 30, very handsome and boyish.  He and Dan both ride their bikes to work.  Dan's in a rock band.  Adam has a wife and two kids -- who he never, ever talks about.

"I dunno, I dunno, man, it didn't look good for him.  That's the second time I've had that happen.  Other time, a lady's car ran off into the canal, and I swam the canal to get to her.  Her eyes had poped out of her head from the impact.  I reached for the back of her head, and her spine was impaled through her skull.  I'm speculating, but I think this guy might die, too, I really do, man."

Crew members in the store who knew about it were subdued.  It happened very quickly and was cleared quickly.  The white Range Rover was still out front, parked illegally, crazily, where it had pulled over, the young male driver taking a long time to get out.  The car was still there.

Within the hour, the police arrived back at the scene.  As word passed through the store, it was as if the air was let out of every soul there.  The crosswalk was a crime scene now.  Involuntary manslaughter.

 They cordoned off the area, lit bright pink flares in the middle of the street, bright as small suns in the night darkness now.  Six cop cars.  Twinkling shards of glass in the new street showed in headlights and flares.  Lots of measuring.  It took three hours.  The Captain had left about 4:30 pm, and just younger managers were running the show.  Trader Joe's workers left their posts and wandered out to watch.  Cash registers were abandoned.  I'm the oldest, most dependable non-management worker in the store, and I stood out there to watch Adam walk the cops through the accident, his strong arms pointing, as he laid out the scene, turning and tracing and retracing steps.  When I came to my senses, and realized I was supposed to be working, I ran in the bright store to see two people were standing in for me.  "They said you were outside.  No big deal, don't worry about it.  How's Adam?"

Jocular customers would say, "A little excitement outside, eh?"  And I would nod.  I'm known for my smile, and regular customers saw I didn't have one.  When I'd deliver the news -- because I couldn't NOT tell them -- most were angry at the driver.  But the car was only one lane into the street, with the pedestrian coming from the right, hidden by the other stopped car.   Was he going too fast?  Probably.  Should the young man have waited to make sure all lanes saw him before he proceeded.  Ceraintly.  I use that crosswalk at least twice a day, and, every time, I pretend it isn't there.  It's no guarantee of anything.  I have the right-of-way?  Great.  Mention that at the memorial service.

One customer was trying to be friendly, and lightly inquired about the activity.  When I nodded briefly, he saw there was more to it, and after a pause, said, "Was it VERY tragic?"  How tragic is that, I wonder?  Should I answer: "No, only one life lost.  Well, plus the driver's.  Two mothers destroyed.  And the families.  And. . ."

I put up my Closed Sign on my register and went outside again.  Adam was there, leaning aginst the building, smoking a cigarette, listening to a regular customer talk about how none of us is promised tomorrow.  I leaned against the building, too, making sure my shoulder touched Adam's, so he'd know he wasn't all alone.  In the four hours since it had happened, Adam's eyes had become very red.  His shoulders were stooped.  If he hadn't leaned against the building, he'd probably fall down.

"I dunno, I've only got a couple of hours left on my shift."

I turned and walked into the store and stood before the Captain's Desk.  Two managers were on the phone, another on the computer.  The computer guy looked up and gave me his regular greeting, "What's going on, Sidda?"

"Adam should go home."

Everyone behind the desk stopped for a few seconds.

The great thing about Trader Joe's (and there are many great things) is how dependable we are.  We stay open when there is a power failure.  We stayed open on 9/11.  We were open the day of the Northridge earthquake.  Only last year did TJs begin closing for Christmas and New Year's -- and that is because we do not work 24 hours a day, 365 days a year.  We are, however, like a show that opens every day at 9 am and closes at 9 pm.  First shift comes in at 3 am, last shift leaves at 1 am.  It's the Energizer bunny.  No matter what, we keep Serving Our Customers.

Adam is one of the Box Boys.  He works in the refrigerator most days, replacing milk and eggs from an invisible perch on the other side of the wall.  Every industry has the cool guys and the geeks.  The Cool Guys are the Box Boys.  You have to work your way u[ and prove yourself to get there.

Adam would never ask to go home.  No Box Boy goes home early.  Ever.  So I asked for him.  Okay, I didn't ask.  I simply stated the truth.  And, since I am older and well-liked and respected, there was no thought that it might not be the best choice.

Drew, at the computer,  nodded once.  "Gotcha.  I'll go talk to him."

"Thanks," I said.

I went outside, set my shoulder against Adama's again, and said, "Adam, they're sending you home."

Relief poured from his face.  "They are?!"

"Yes. You don't have to be a hero -- any MORE of a hero -- you go home.  You've seen enough for today.  You did more than anyone else did.  You go home."

I returned to my register, and five minutes later, saw Drea escort Adam inside and stand there while he clocked out.

Lives altered forever.  Lives lost.  Lives ruined.

He was just crossing the street.