The weather was fine.
The livin’ was easy.
My travel companion mentioned, in passing, that the 1950’s Hollywood starlet/bombshell/hot mess Jane Mansfield, had died ‘just over there’.
A landscape truck, with a huge, attached flat-bed thingy, jerry-rigged off the back, full-up with all sorts of equipment, decided to forgo the use of the turn signal (and all sense of physical space), and spread itself across an intersection, that was already congested with cars appropriating said ‘space’, WHILE, at the same time, the traffic signal turned from green to red (Orange? What’s orange? Not in New Orleans).
I began to brake, and then brake some more, when I saw in my rearview mirror the classic inner city urban ride (dark 2-door sedan with black-out windows) of the iconic hoody-clad speakers-blaring I-am-the-whole-universe youth bearing down on me at an alarmingly not- aware of what-the-fuck-is-going-on speed.
So, it was the landscape flat bed in the front, the gangsta’ up my back, and cross traffic from both sides.
And, somehow, I nailed it. (And by nailed it I mean I did not get nailed).
The youth was irate and began hand-gesturing at me.
I could see this in my rear-view mirror.
I was not amused, and seeing as how the intersection would not be passable for at least another few minutes, I decided to have a talk with him.
In the intersection.
And we talked of Old Hollywood and the illusion of grandeur, and good intentions run-amouk, and how misspent minutes add up to years, and how it only takes a second to ruin your whole life.
I hope Jane would be proud.
What’s left of the sand road
US Highway east of Rigolets Bridge
The very spot of the accident,
looking west towards Rigelots Bridge.
No marker placed in memoriam.