Six Minutes on a Sunday

At first, it was very familiar and I slowed down. But then I saw someone running along the side of the road to the wreck and it hit me that I did not hear any sirens and there were no blue or red flashing lights coloring the gray day.

A couple of cars were parked along the side of the road. Farther down the highway, a black SUV was laying upside down, its roof crushed over the front seats at an angle so that its hood leaned toward the ground and its back hatch pointed skyward. A tire lay in the middle of one of the lanes.

Jen and I were driving along Highway One, the Trans Canadian Highway, when we saw the scene. The rain had been constant all day and the sheen of water on the highway reflected my headlights. We’d been camping up island for the weekend and were on our way home on a stretch of highway between towns.

“Jen, what do I do? Do I stop?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” She quickly replied.

Without thinking – there was no time – I pulled the car over to the side of the road. We hopped out and ran towards the wrecked SUV. Several other cars pulled over and people got out. Jen and I crossed to the driver’s side of the upside down car and I could see the driver’s arm limply resting on the bent window frame. Broken glass and small pieces of metal were everywhere.

A man with windblown hair who looked like a California surfer was crouched next to the window. A few people stood around, saying things like “don’t move him” and “is there anyone else in the car?” Several people asked if anyone had called 911 despite the fact that two different men were talking on their cell phones at that moment and were clearly giving the sort of info that a 911 operator would ask for.

The rest of us stood there. Nobody knew what to do. I didn’t know what to do.

Although I couldn’t see into the wreck, I could tell from the position of the arm that someone was strapped into the upside down driver’s seat. I could see the driver’s hand – it stuck out of a blue fleece jacket and was white – so white – and one of the newcomers to the crowd asked if he had a pulse.

“Yeah, a faint one,” said the surfer guy, with a clear Canadian accent, as he stood up.

Jen noticed that nobody was with the man and crouched next to the window. She rubbed the man’s arm and talked, telling him that she was there, that help was on the way. The arm did not move.

I looked around, surprised to find that an actual crowd had gathered and that even more cars were stopping. I saw a woman go to a black briefcase lying in the shoulder of the road about five feet away. She opened it up and started going through it, pulling out a day planner. Cars were beginning to stop on the other side of the highway and a young bearded man in a flannel shirt hopped over the divider and announced that he was a first aid responder. He said something to one of the other guys in the crowd and then crouched next to the man as Jen moved out of the way.

Another man carrying a large duffel bag with “First Aid” written on it in black marker ran down the road.

“I’m a first aid responder,” he said. The bearded first aid man stood up and they began to talk. The driver’s white hand lay near their shoes. After a minute, one walked around the vehicle and somehow got into the passenger door.

Jen and I stood there in the rain. Her hair hung down, soaked. Close to 20 people stood around. The guy next to me, one who had called 911 on his cell phone, had a huge purple birthmark on the back of his neck. The surfer guy had disappeared. We stood there watching, waiting.

The woman who was going through the briefcase said quietly, “His name is Rick.” None of the crowd seemed to notice. She said it again. “His name is Rick.” One of the first aid guys repeated “Rick”. I said the name to myself.

“Maybe we should leave,” Jen said to me, “Clear out some space for when the ambulance arrives.”

I looked at the scene. We walked back to my car and I was shocked to find my keys were in the ignition and the engine was still running. I glanced at the clock to find that only six minutes had passed.

I looked back at the scene in my rear view window, shook up. Six minutes before, Jen and I had been in our own safe world. We didn’t know the man - Rick - in the accident. We were just a few minutes behind him in traffic and could do nothing, really, to help him when he most needed it. I might never know anything more about the man, and yet, I do know that I will probably never forget him.

A mile down the road we passed a police car flying down the highway in the opposite direction. Behind it were a paramedic fire truck and then an ambulance. Their sirens were wailing and their red and blue lights pierced the gray day like lightening flashing in a night sky.