What a Rush.

For English we were supposed to write a Personal Narrative Essay highlighting an experience in our life. I chose the time I was hit by a car. I apologize for the profanity at the beginning, but what else are you supposed to think when you are hit by a car? Enjoy.

Oh shit.


As fast as this thought shoots through my head, time seems to be frozen. I envision walking around my body, which is about to receive a cold embrace from a 2,000 pound vehicle. It is a strange car, appearing to be some hybrid of a Geo Metro and a Chevy Trailblazer. Only now does it cross my mind that I should not have stepped in front of traffic without a clear line of vision in both directions. This split second of examination is enough to sway me to believe that I will not beat this car. This is going to hurt.

The streets of Ecuador are crazy. This is no surprise to me; I’ve been here for twenty months now. You see, I have a small problem. The rules do not apply to me. I am too smart to carefully examine the streets before I cross. While others may wait for an opening in traffic and clear view of oncoming traffic, I simply look down at the street where I want to cross. If I see no lights, it’s a go.

White light fills my vision. Am I imagining time’s freeze? I can’t be. It’s too real.

I must be dead. No one survives what I just experienced. As my vision comes in to focus, I realize I am in the middle of the street. Dead or not, I summon all of my strength to sprint to the other side of the road. The jump over the curb was almost enough to make my legs buckle under the pressure.

Determined to dramatize the situation, I roll onto the grass much like an action hero would in the movies. A moment of epiphany seizes me, and shakes me as if to scream, “You are alive!” I am alive. I am invincible.

The screams around me seem to intensify all pain in my body. With each utterance of “¡Lo mataron!” a shot of pain goes through my body, contradicting their vocalized belief that I am dead. “¡Ya! ¡Callense!” I shout to demand silence from the roughly one hundred faces that look on. Half of the crowd is offended at such a rude outburst at their supposed caring and turn their backs to leave. “Well, I hate to burst your bubble,” I mutter under my breath and laugh as I watch the majority walk away, “but I am not dead.”

Knowing that I am superhuman for surviving such an incident, I imagine myself in the pages of a comic book. Each of the past few seconds is documented panel by panel. There are oval bubbles reflecting my thoughts and words.

Each painting uses such vibrant colors as to make you think that this place is beautiful. No self-respecting artist would ever waste his efforts to depict “La loma de Puengasi,” this settlement built on a hill littered with all variety of garbage. This place is as ugly as my wounded face, which is now swollen and scratched down the left side, letting just enough blood seep out to make the wound visible in the dim light.

From the crowd, one man comes into view. His face is warped by disbelief and curiosity. He carefully examines the scene with his moustache at a 45 degree angle with his chin, rising from left to right. Our eyes meet, and fear instantly conquers his face. “Doxey?!”

It’s Jaime. Unsure that I can express my state vocally, I begin to laugh to reassure him. Laughing is the easiest response, and needs no Spanish translation. He tells me that I’m crazy. He said the same thing when I jumped inside the bull fighting ring. Even that long red cape would not have been enough to protect me against this much larger, faster beast. He must think that I did this one on purpose.

“I’m going to call an ambulance,” says Jaime.

I laugh harder to make my objection clear, and roll back and forth. The grass under me crunches as my body rocks. The rocking brings the small bag propped under the small of my back to my attention. At least I still have my books. I’m always the optimist.

Enough time has passed that I am convinced I cannot stand. The crowd shares the belief. Two uniformed officers standing to my right continue examining me. I can hear them whisper, “He’s a gringo” to one another. I thought it might be fun to play dead just to see how they would treat a dead gringo, but decided that might take away from the story of my human game of Frogger.

“Here comes the finale” I thought to myself. I concentrated all my strength to stand. Determined to continue the theatrics, I attempt to do so in a rocking motion. One… Two… Three… All the way back, I rock and throw myself forward. I firmly plant my feet on the ground and admire the majesty of my conquest. If ever there was a time for a soundtrack of life this was it. I feel the success rush to my head. It feels strangely like blood leaving my head, and likewise leaves me light headed. The hero falls. There I am once again on my back staring at the sky. There is a lesson to be learned here, a lesson that twenty-one years of my mother’s warnings was not enough to teach. Rather than worry, I laugh again softly. Convinced to share my new found knowledge with the world, I raise my voice and proclaim, “Look both ways before you cross the street!”