High Beams

I ran the red light. Not what I normally do, granted, but today I was late. Late, late, for a very important date, I couldn’t help but think, out of habit from watching Alice in Wonderland forty million times in the past four years. I knew that if I didn’t hurry, Shirley would kill me. This month alone, I’d missed our son Liam’s Christmas pageant and a parent-teacher meeting Shirley asked me to attend. I couldn’t miss his fifth birthday party, too.

I was supposed to have picked the two of them up half an hour ago to bring them to Chuck E. Cheese, where fifteen other kindergarteners were waiting. Yesterday, when I promised my excited son I wouldn’t be late, Shirley had pulled me aside and said, “This is important to him, Jason.”

“I know that,” I grumbled. I hated when she told me what to do, what’s important. Three years of marriage had completely demolished any desire I might have had to sit back and let a woman control my life, and now that the divorce was official, I was happier. And, if you asked Shirl, just as unreliable as I’d been when we were married. I couldn’t even tell you how many times I promised Liam I’d try harder, do better, not let him down. He was still so little, but I could already tell he knew what I said was empty. I didn’t necessarily mean to lie to him. I have just always sucked at prioritizing.

I knew, if I didn’t get there quick, they’d leave without me. Shirley assured me of that, the day before. So I ran the damned red light.

Immediately a symphony of red and blue exploded behind me like a thousand angry firecrackers. I cursed loudly as the siren picked up, and obediently pulled over.

The cop sauntered up to my window. “Do you know why I pulled you over?” he asked.

I hate when cops ask that question. Plus I was already pissed, sure that I’d let my kid down yet again, so I snapped, “No doubt you’re gonna tell me.”

The cop hesitated, then said, “You ran a red light back there. License and registration, please.”
I handed it to him without looking at his face. I wanted to get this over with as quickly as possible. “I’ll be right back with your ticket,” the cop said before walking away.

I looked at my watch. 5:43. The party had started thirteen minutes ago. I slammed my hands against the steering wheel, cursing again. Okay, so whatever. I’d buy Liam some new Hotwheels, a container of new Leggos. I’d take him to the zoo, the arcade, the movies, wherever he wanted to go. I’d make this up to him. No problem.

The cop came back and handed me my ticket. “You have a nice day,” he said, almost snidely, and it was all I could do to keep from flipping him off. I drove off again and was at a safe distance before I picked up speed. Out of spite, I flashed my headlights at the first car I passed, a blue Hummer H2, to warn him of the upcoming cop, feeling a bubble of vengeful glee as I did so. Take that, I thought, and continued on my way to Shirley’s.

Her car wasn’t in the driveway. I cursed for a third time in ten minutes, did a U-turn, and sped off towards Chuck E. Cheese. Maybe, if I was less than half an hour late, I could repair the damage with a single present or trip. Maybe Liam would be having so much fun right now, he would forget. Maybe, just maybe.

Naturally, traffic was backed up for a good mile before Chuck E. Cheese. I couldn’t believe my bad luck. Did the universe want Liam to hate me? “C’mon, c’mon,” I groaned, resisting the urge to honk and cuss. Whoever said patience was a virtue clearly didn’t have a son whose mistrust hung between them like a veil.

A good ten minutes later, the source of the back-up could be seen. A car accident, surrounded by police cruisers and a couple of ambulances. Both cars in question were so totaled, I couldn’t see how anybody could walk away from it, and morbid curiosity insisted that I slow down to look. What was left of a navy-colored Hummer had apparently T-boned a rusty Ford Taurus.
It suddenly felt like someone had reached down my throat, yanked out my heart, and forced me to swallow it. That piece-of-shit Taurus, even in its devastating state, was unmistakably Shirley’s piece-of-shit Taurus. I swerved over to park on the shoulder, and ripped myself from my car, hurrying closer to the accident, speechless…

“Sir, you can’t stop here,” a policeman said, holding out his hands. I paid no attention. Beyond him, I could see a policeman wrenching open the door of the Hummer. The driver spilled out, blood dripping down his face, but conscious. With him, a couple of empty beer bottles rolled out and shattered on the pavement. Paramedics were removing something from the backseat of the Taurus—a piece of me ripped away as I saw my little boy’s face. His eyes were closed, his body slack, and the look on the EMT’s face couldn’t be plainer. It was the undeniable, polished face of death, the flip-side of life’s coin. Just yards away, they were wheeling Shirley on a gurney. A paramedic was checking her pulse as they hurried to the ambulance, shaking his head.