Ten Seconds On SE 7th

by Bill DeRouchey

Southeast: Added on February 15, 2005

I stopped at a red light on SE 7th, waiting to turn left onto Hawthorne, driving home from work. To my left was the animal shelter for vending machines, the cage where they go to rust and trade stories of glass bottles and silver quarters after vending their last Sprite, facing the street, hoping to drop one more Pepsi, or, on a sunny afternoon, a root beer.

Guy was coaxing a forklift, trying to jostle the tines under a Dr Pepper machine, flubbing like a boxer wrestling open a jar of peanut butter. Dude was a few feet in front of Guy's forklift, moving piles of boxes from here to there by hand. Guy wedged the tines in a wee bit, grabbed a little traction, and nudged the forklift forward.

The center of gravity shifted.

The Dr Pepper door flew open and swung toward Dude, moving piles of boxes from here to there by hand, facing away. Guy inched the forklift another tad. Momentum gained. Dr Pepper, with dreams of freedom rattling around like three quarters falling into a freshly emptied change bin, grabbed its big chance for escape.

Dr Pepper lunged forward, toward Dude, still moving piles of boxes from here to there by hand, still facing away. Dr Pepper, heavy enough to require a forklift to move, fell right toward, and maybe onto, Dude.

From the car, I could only watch, my heart on pause.

Dr Pepper smashed hard to the pavement, barely skimming Dude, like the wall falling onto Buster Keaton in Steamboat Bill Jr. Guy looked over, yelled "are you okay?" He missed him by this much.

I blinked to restart my heart. I looked into my rearview mirror at the driver behind me. His face wore the same ohmigod expression as mine. We nearly watched Dude die.

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Ten seconds later, driving now on Hawthorne, a crow pulled a straw out of a Burgerville cup below a bus stop bench.

It was one of those minutes.