The Saga Continues

On Friday, I received the bill for the ambulance ride. In excess of $700. Yikes. Yesterday I received the copy of the police report (I am sexily referred to as "pedalcyclist" and "unit #2"). I also learned that my car insurance would cover this, but hopefully the woman's (unsexily called "driver" and "unit #1") insurance will cover it instead. Regarding my own, I made absolutely sure that Pemco knew that I was riding a bike, not driving any kind of motorized vehicle. Apparently, they cover that too because I was struck by a car (a 1998 Ford Windstar van, gold)? It's not entirely clear. Anyway, the whole process is fascinating--hospital, bills, police, insurance companies. I just want my bike to be tuned up so I can ride again!

My injuries are healing nicely; every day I feel better. There are some wicked scabs forming, which will hopefully form into gnarly scars (increasing street cred, obviously).

Here's a short, written in second person [work in progress?]. Any opinions are greatly appreciated.



The Hospital

You can hear sounds of the hospital all around you; machines beeping, people murmuring, hushed voices. Time passes slowly, or quickly; you can't see the clock. You know you are alive and conscious of what is happening, because you can feel the pain in different, distinct parts of your body. Rhythmic throbbing in your ankle, sharp pain in your elbow, dull ache in your neck.

Time means nothing because you are here and you are now. You don't think about what you will do next week, you don't think about what happened today before the accident, or yesterday. Now is all that exists for you and for everyone else.

You feel the hardness of the board against your body, creating a persistent discomfort where unyielding plastic meets bone: the back of the head, the lower back, the elbow. You try to move your leg--the one that doesn't hurt--to a more comfortable position to ease the pressure on your lower back, but you can't. You can't move. You are powerless to do anything against the straps that bind you at various points along your body: head, chest, hips, legs.

You wait, you endure in silence. The sounds of the hospital continue around you. A young girl asks her father what happened to him, does he hurt? A woman fusses over him, telling him to accept the pain medicine. He moans as a nurse dresses his wounds. Footsteps, coming, going, coming. For a moment, you panic. Has the hospital staff forgotten that you're here? Does anyone know that you're here? Where are you? Does the life that you recall really exist outside? There is nothing to link you to reality. You are alone.

Your brother comes, your friends come. Your life returns: it is as you were remembering.

New Experiences

Yesterday was full of new experiences. One the one hand, that's great. During my trip to Central America, I realized that my life is made better by both actively and passively experiencing new things. What better way to learn, change, grow? My life in Seattle (Part II) has been significantly improved by this ethos. So, with every new experience, I try to accept it and learn from it--or at least find the humor buried inside.

So, what can I gain from being hit by a minivan while biking, riding two blocks in an ambulance, being in the ER, and needing crutches (all of which are new and exciting)? I'm still not entirely sure. It was all very interesting, totally surreal.

So, as I was strapped to a hard, flat thing and immobilized for at least 45 minutes while in the ER, I had a lot of time to listen to the family next to me. The father had had a bike accident too; he had flown over the handlebars and broken his clavicle, with damage to his ribs and some problem with his left lung. The wife was nagging him to take pain medication, telling him not to bike so fast because that was what caused the accident, that he should have called an ambulance instead of a friend to take him to the hospital. The daughter, nine years old, asked questions about what happened, about vocabulary used by the nurse, and (in whispers) about what had happened to the girl next to them.

I was in the ER for a little over 3 hours. In that time, probably ten different people assisted me in different ways, and I was asked about a current tetanus shot and if I was (or could be) pregnant by each of them.

My bike, which I located about 10 feet behind me after I was coherent enough to remember it, seems to be all right. I asked the many kind, helpful people who clustered around the accident if they knew anything about bikes but no one could really tell me if it was severely injured or not. My roommate rode it home that evening, commenting that the alignment was a little off but that was all that she could see.

The woman who hit me was absolutely distraught and functionally worthless when it came to dealing with the situation but there were several people nearby who directed. Normally, I hate being told what to do by anyone but it was very welcome at that moment. The driver jumped out of the minivan, panicked, and darted around, purposeless, in tight jeans and a short blue tank-top. Weird. I'm glad that I didn't have to talk to her. The paramedics arrived, police, firemen, a group of onlookers. Everyone was talking to me and I couldn't even think. Before too long, they hoisted me up and strapped me down and transported me to Swedish Medical Center about two blocks away. Convenient.

In summary, I have a sprained ankle and several wicked abrasions, mostly on the left side of my body. I don't think I'll feel dorky about wearing a helmet in the future because I don't even want to imagine what would have happened if I hadn't been wearing one--my roommate's, in fact. My entire body aches from the impact and it's very difficult to move around. I feel like a cyborg with the walking boot and a gimp when I crutch around. Once again, it could have been far worse.

I am incredibly grateful to the people who helped, the man with the dachshund who called the necessary authorities, the woman who helped me gather my things from around and under the vehicle. My brother tells me that I get street cred, but does that only apply if I had left the hospital bracelet on? And, really, it's funny. The timing of it, the freakish-accident nature, it's all ironic. And who is unlucky enough to get hit by a car while biking? Let's laugh.

The Ginger Pot

Enough about the despicable job. Several intelligent friends have recommended that, because work is inherently work, I should focus on things outside my job that I enjoy. Here's the first assignment from my writing class. Many people have asked me, disdainfully, "Who even reads your blog?" as if it were defined by its audience. That's part of the point, the blog is out there, in cyberspace for anyone who wants to read it without imposing on those who aren't interested. The next question is, "What do you even write about?" Well, if they read it, they wouldn't have to stupidly ask that question. There is no point to this short rant, only that these people have made me think harder about what I want this blog to be. I'm still not sure but I would like any opinions/criticism regarding posts, content, creative writing, etc. Thanks.


The Ginger Pot

He didn’t stop talking and in her mind she rolled her eyes, more out of amused frustration with herself than with him. A common occurrence, the plight of the uninterested who ask questions out of courtesy and the desire to fill a potentially awkward silence. It was also easier than any other conceivable interaction. He turned the piece over in his hand, gazing at it fondly, rolling it from side to side, examining the intricate inlaid pattern, running his hand around it with an almost loving caress.

Her mind wandered. It was only natural, he had a soothing voice and rhythmic manner of speech and was saying little of interest to her. She contemplated his face. That stage in life between middle age and old, she concluded, but was unsure because his face was still very animated in a youngish, almost feminine way. From there, the scrutiny was drawn to his eyes. A clear, deep brown that was punctuated by a few asymmetrical flecks of some hue approximating gold that drew the gaze from one eye to the other and back again. She wondered if in the years to come they would succumb to time in the way that the body as a whole did. It seemed inevitable, that their rich color would slowly be tainted by the watery consistency that would slowly descend upon them. Would he watch them change as the years passed? she mused. Would the weak blue slowly invade from the outside in? Would it be an alarming progression or something that was simply accepted with the process of aging? Is it something that his wife would notice as she looked into his eyes on a bright, overcast day?

She shook her head slightly to return to the present. At least he was the type of explainer who didn’t ask for confirmation or look for listening cues. She just needed to supply a periodic nonverbal sound of assent and look in whatever direction he indicated and she could be left alone with her thoughts.

His hands played over the object, absentmindedly now, tracing the aperture of the pot. What was it again? She hadn’t been listening for a while, perhaps five minutes but she couldn't be sure. Should she just listen and try to piece it together? Or remember? Wait for an unlikely pause and ask questions to get the answer in a way that didn’t expose her inattention or set off another monologue? Think, think, she thought. That was it: a ginger pot, in the style of some kind of metalworking technique--some French word that was heard and quickly forgotten. What exactly was a ginger pot? A pot for holding ginger? She wished now that she had enquired at the appropriate time but it was several minutes too late. She tried to imagine how ginger would be kept in the pot and concluded that it must be powdered ginger to be stored in such a manner.

She tried again to focus on the thing and the accompanying explanation. The detailed pattern of vines and leaves over a brilliant red base with a green plant sprouting from the bottom--approximating a dandelion without the flower (were there dandelions in China?).

“It was our second trip to China. We spent most of our time in Peking but went to Shanghai for a few days. There is this most fantastic open air market in the center of the city that just goes on for blocks and blocks. So many treasures," he said, shaking his head in what she guessed was an intimation of fond memory. "I was so utterly torn between this and an antique vase!” He let out an undulating laugh and continued the oration. "I’m so very glad that Virginia convinced me to buy this gem instead. I try to limit the souvenirs to one per trip or there’d be no room to sit in this house!” He flapped his hand to indicate the cultural artifacts occupying a majority of the flat surface nearby.

He leaned forward and extended the pot to her on his open palm. "Isn't it exquisite? Open it!" he commanded with a conspiratorial wink.

She opened the pot. Inside, a small slip of paper, a fortune. It made a fluttering sound against the metal as she shook it onto her hand. In red ink and surprisingly correct grammar: "Sometimes when the grown-ups get all mixed up, you get mixed up, too." She smiled to herself and turned her attention back to the grown-up.

Thanks for the invitation

I might have the tiny awful habit of complaining to select customers about my job, customers who seem reasonable enough to understand that customer service just sucks. This morning, a customer who used to work at a certain corporate earth-friendly grocery store, came in. He is about my age and we had bonded previously over the connection that he used to work with my roommates at previously mentioned store. He seemed harmless enough, and quite friendly in the beginning, but with each subsequent visit, he seemed more eager to talk to me. I've learned that it is generally a bad idea to become overly familiar with male customers because they don't seem to understand that we baristas are PAID to be nice to them. It's a part of customer service. Friendliness leads to familiarity and the idea that we are friends when, in reality, they are the customers and we are the people who serve them. There is a clear division: the counter. There are rare exceptions when a friendship is actually formed out of common interest and mutual appreciation but the rule is that we are a captive audience and just because we appear interested does not mean that we are.

I had been trying to distance myself from this specific male customer after he asked my name and appeared excited every time I took his order. Today, I cringed when he entered the cafe and attempted to take his order as brusquely as possible. He asked how my day was, I replied with my obsession at the moment--that I might die if I had to work at the cafe any longer. We complained a little about customer service and he headed toward the door. I was by the bar, talking to another barista, when he approached again. I knew exactly what he was about to ask. I hoped that he had some complaint, like all the other customers who awkwardly approach the bar area. Instead, he asked me to lunch some time. My mind raced, I stalled. What to say? The easiest would be to lie, to say that I was dating someone. But I didn't want to lie because I shouldn't have to lie. So I told him that I tried not to date customers. He mumbled that it was fair but that he didn't come in that much, anyway. I thanked him for the invitation and tried not to look at my coworker who was hiding behind the espresso machine, trying not to laugh too loudly.

I don't understand. What would ever make him think that I was interested? Is that socially acceptable? How can I prevent this?

Bottom line: I need a new job, fast. Anything might do at this point but preferably something not in customer service. Anyone?