The Hungry Artist

Memorial Day is not a lover’s holiday, yet my lover played an Italian love song. “Too florid” he said. I asked, “Who is this?” and as I narrate, I forget.

Narration means remembering important things. Which exit to get off on – I think. Another song by an Italian singer, this time in Portuguese. Another love song, any romantic plans forestalled.

On I-20, heading east. Just past Cisco. I didn’t know at the time we were passing through Ranger. I knew, Texas. An orange sign saying: Incident Ahead.

My lover was just waking from a nap, he – his head lolling about on the passenger seat. I – my hand turning down the shuffling songs on my disconnected smart phone. I narrate this not knowing if this detail is of any real significance.

Memory Marker: I downgraded from smart to simple, basic phone in the year 2013, the year of my first national park trip. First sighting of a helicopter, on the ground, on the other side of the freeway. Memorial Day. Incident Ahead.

I had seen a similar sign earlier. No big thing – just some highway construction. But now, my lover awake, the music turned down, bumper-to-bumper, we couldn’t see past the row of cars ahead. In the driver’s side mirror, a white S.U.V. veered to the left. I said, “Damn car thinks he can sneak in through the side,” and then realized that car was probably trying to see the incident ahead, just like me.

Note: The little bumps on the emergency lane signal to the driver that he is veering out of line, my lover made me realize. His knowledge of less significant facts becomes useful within context.

We passed an overturned vehicle on the other side of the freeway. It looked like a rig with towing capacity. I turned down the music some more. I didn’t turn it off completely. To do that would have meant that I knew for a fact there were casualties. I couldn’t be sure of that. Even with the helicopter looming in landed position. This had to be big. Even with no other damaged vehicles, no body bags in sight.

When finally past the long stretch of immobilized traffic on the other side, we were free to accelerate. I did so, slowly, with caution, as if this guaranteed safety.

If I am completely alert at every moment of driving, I’ll have time to react and avoid an accident. I believed. My own car crash two years prior had caught me off guard. I turn off the music completely.

“I’m going to look this up online for sure,” I said. “I want to know exactly what happened here.” My lover’s response: “It probably won’t be there. Often these kinds of accidents in small towns don’t get reported.” Small town. Big crash.

I completely forgot to look up the accident that evening of Memorial Day, 2013.

We rested. We ate dinner at his place. We carried out unplanned romance.

My lover sent me a link to the reported accident the next morning. This was the gist of it:

4 killed in multi-vehicle wreck on I-20. Eight miles east of Ranger, Texas.

DECEASED: A family of 3: husband, wife and 3-year-old baby. A 65-year old man flown by helicopter to the nearest General Hospital.

INJURED: The wife of the 65-year old man treated and released the same day, from a different hospital than that of her husband. Driver and passenger of the International Truck taken to the same Fort Worth hospital.

Close to 2:00 in the afternoon. “The weather was clear and the road was dry.”

I will remember those days prior to Memorial Day Monday 2013. The first and best of things. First visit to a national park. First experience of a bat flight. Best hike.

The survivors may or may not remember the days prior to Memorial Day Monday. If they do, I imagine the days running into each other as short cuts to the finale.