because I assume they always run tags and numbers or whatever. But it only took a sec before I saw his silhouette cut into the strobing lights.
I turned on my interior lights, rolled down my window and waited.
"Where are you headed?" he asked. He was a state trooper. I thought I would remember his name, but I can't. Maybe later.
I told him, "Wisconsin."
"Well you can't go this way."
I picked up my Google maps print out as if it would show me alternate routes.
I was about to ask why.
"You don't want to go this way," he amended.
"Okay," I agreed—I was okay to change my route—something was wrong in town. "How do I reconnect with this road?"
"Have a road map?"
"Not of South Dakota," I said. "I haven't left Wisconsin in years."
That wasn’t exactly true. But my out of state trips were to places I knew by heart and didn’t need a map.
He sighed. In a nice way.
He pulled out his ticket book and wrote on it for a moment. Then he gave me the directions I hoped he was writing.
I thanked him and told him how much I appreciate that.
"Sure thing," he said in an easy way.
Headlights appeared some distance off in my rear view. He noticed too. Time to go.
"Well I hope they open up the roads for you soon," I said.
The faintest line appeared between his eyebrows and vanished as quick. I didn't understand what the look meant, yet.
I assume he wondered if I knew or not.
He waited in front of his headlights until I took the left turn that his directions said. By then the other car was close and he'd be dealing with them soon.
I was some distance on this road when I had to swerve for a suitcase and braked for the car that birthed it.
Luggage and its contents were strewn over about 15 feet of road. There were a few totes left haphazard and spewing. The lid for one was in the ditch, illuminated by my headlights. The station wagon’s gate was open into the left lane.
I didn't want to run other their things.
I didn't want to go out in the dark—especially because it didn't look safe. It looked ransacked, robbed. Where were the people who were in it before? They didn't run out of gas—most people, I think, actually make it to the side of the road.
I took out my cell phone. Only a tiny bar pulsed. I dialed 9-1-1. When my signal held long enough to ring, a computer told me that all available dispatchers were on other calls—blah, blah, blah.
I swore and thought about going back and seeing if I could find the officer again. But what if someone was hurt? I couldn't see around the vehicle—there might be another vehicle. I didn't see any debris that might indicate an accident, but that might be why the hatch was open and all their things were thrown out on the road.
That settled it.
I took my flashlight out of my purse, a penlight. It's bright—for the first time it didn't seem bright enough.
When I was getting out I was torn between locking up—which I'd always do if I couldn't keep the car in sight—and leaving the doors unlocked and maybe even the driver's door open a little.
I decided to lock all the doors and keep the car running. I would keep my remote entry key in my hand. Then I got out.
I dialed 9-1-1 again and closed the door with my freehand. I pressed the lock button on the remote. Inside the speakers throbbed—I didn't realize I was listening to the music so loud. I remember it really bothered me that I couldn't tell what song was playing, but I knew the rhythm. I remember now. It was The Red , by Chevelle. I love human memory's queue.
The night air felt great, but that was the only good in being out there.
I'm sure there are plenty of people who’ve never smelled anything dead, much less a dead person. Unless it was at a funeral. But an embalmed person smells a lot different than someone who's just dead—and rotting. I found out what death smells like when I was pretty little from animals hit on the road. I knew the difference between road kill and human decay by the time I was a teenager. You
I turned on my interior lights, rolled down my window and waited.
"Where are you headed?" he asked. He was a state trooper. I thought I would remember his name, but I can't. Maybe later.
I told him, "Wisconsin."
"Well you can't go this way."
I picked up my Google maps print out as if it would show me alternate routes.
I was about to ask why.
"You don't want to go this way," he amended.
"Okay," I agreed—I was okay to change my route—something was wrong in town. "How do I reconnect with this road?"
"Have a road map?"
"Not of South Dakota," I said. "I haven't left Wisconsin in years."
That wasn’t exactly true. But my out of state trips were to places I knew by heart and didn’t need a map.
He sighed. In a nice way.
He pulled out his ticket book and wrote on it for a moment. Then he gave me the directions I hoped he was writing.
I thanked him and told him how much I appreciate that.
"Sure thing," he said in an easy way.
Headlights appeared some distance off in my rear view. He noticed too. Time to go.
"Well I hope they open up the roads for you soon," I said.
The faintest line appeared between his eyebrows and vanished as quick. I didn't understand what the look meant, yet.
I assume he wondered if I knew or not.
He waited in front of his headlights until I took the left turn that his directions said. By then the other car was close and he'd be dealing with them soon.
I was some distance on this road when I had to swerve for a suitcase and braked for the car that birthed it.
Luggage and its contents were strewn over about 15 feet of road. There were a few totes left haphazard and spewing. The lid for one was in the ditch, illuminated by my headlights. The station wagon’s gate was open into the left lane.
I didn't want to run other their things.
I didn't want to go out in the dark—especially because it didn't look safe. It looked ransacked, robbed. Where were the people who were in it before? They didn't run out of gas—most people, I think, actually make it to the side of the road.
I took out my cell phone. Only a tiny bar pulsed. I dialed 9-1-1. When my signal held long enough to ring, a computer told me that all available dispatchers were on other calls—blah, blah, blah.
I swore and thought about going back and seeing if I could find the officer again. But what if someone was hurt? I couldn't see around the vehicle—there might be another vehicle. I didn't see any debris that might indicate an accident, but that might be why the hatch was open and all their things were thrown out on the road.
That settled it.
I took my flashlight out of my purse, a penlight. It's bright—for the first time it didn't seem bright enough.
When I was getting out I was torn between locking up—which I'd always do if I couldn't keep the car in sight—and leaving the doors unlocked and maybe even the driver's door open a little.
I decided to lock all the doors and keep the car running. I would keep my remote entry key in my hand. Then I got out.
I dialed 9-1-1 again and closed the door with my freehand. I pressed the lock button on the remote. Inside the speakers throbbed—I didn't realize I was listening to the music so loud. I remember it really bothered me that I couldn't tell what song was playing, but I knew the rhythm. I remember now. It was The Red , by Chevelle. I love human memory's queue.
The night air felt great, but that was the only good in being out there.
I'm sure there are plenty of people who’ve never smelled anything dead, much less a dead person. Unless it was at a funeral. But an embalmed person smells a lot different than someone who's just dead—and rotting. I found out what death smells like when I was pretty little from animals hit on the road. I knew the difference between road kill and human decay by the time I was a teenager. You
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