A Short Story by Alabaster Hickey--

ONE HARD HIT

It had rained just enough the evening before to fog the bus’ windshield with a thin, reflective sheen of dust, and when the sun hit it just right visibility was greatly reduced. For this reason the tall man had the engine compartment open and he was precariously balanced atop one of the bus’ hulky tires trying to clean the broad plates of glass.

With an explosive sound of smashing metal the tall man's attention was immediately drawn to the street. At first all the tall man saw was a transit bus coming to a metal screeching, rubber flapping stop. His first thought was it had blown a tire, but then he looked beyond the bus and across from it was a small pick-up truck with flames curling out from under its crumpled hood. The tall man jumped down from the tire, grabbed the fire extinguisher from inside his bus and ran to the bus yard office.

“There ain’t no fire,” said a fellow bus driver as he ran passed her.

“The HELL there isn’t,” the tall man retorted.

He swung open the rear door of the bus yard lounge and bolted around the tables and chairs, and passed a supervisor who was yelling, “WHERE’S THE FIRE EXTINGUISHERS?” The tall man ran passed her without saying a word and out the front door he flew. As he approached the pick-up truck he surveyed the mangled metal for fuel leaks and fire.

The lady driving the pick-up was standing near a tree leaning over and bleeding from a nasty gash on her forehead. Moments later his supervisor came by and attended to the lady’s immediate needs.

When he looked in the blood splattered cab he saw between the dash and the floorboard a flaming nest of fire. The tall man pointed the nozzle toward the fire, squeezed the extinguisher’s trigger, and the fire promptly surrendered it glow. Two more fires were blazing under the pick-up’s hood and twice more the tall man jerked the trigger.

The woman had had enough muddled cognizance to get out of her vehicle fast! He suspected the ball of fire that leaped from the engine, and the fact that flames were licking at her legs, aided in her nimble response. The transit bus’ impact gave her little room to maneuver, but obviously under the circumstances it was ample!

The head rest of the driver’s seat had smashed through the rear window, and the steering wheel had to have been at chin level. Between the pick-up truck’s cab and front left tire—which, incidentally had been sheared off and was lying a good 50 feet aft—was an impressive dent that caused a rift in the pick-up’s interior. The impact was such that the floorboard was rent from the firewall just below the accelerator. The six inch gap (at its widest point) ran nearly the full width of the vehicle.

The astonished tall man asked a witness what had happened and he said that the transit bus was in the middle turn lane traveling way too fast and that it veered into the pick-up truck. The bus had sustained a dent to its front bumper and its windshield had several lateral and diagonal cracks running its length.

The tall man's supervisor asked him if he had any clean tissues and he said no as he patted his pockets just in case. But then feeling a lump in my rear pants pocket he pulled out a wad of paper towels he had intended to use on the windshield and handed them to her.

“Ah! Here, use these!” The tall man's supervisor promptly had the woman sit down and compressed the clump of paper to her bleeding forehead.

Once he felt that the area was secured and the danger of fire had been minimized, he stepped off the curb and turned back to the bus yard; but before I could take another step the sound of a fire truck rumbling down the road with its sirens wailing gave him cause to pause. They pulled up within 10 feet of the smashed pick-up, and out rolled three burly, well insulated, helmeted firemen. As they lumbered toward the wreck they wore on their faces expressions of astonishment. It was truly miraculous that the lady was not killed and, most fortunate, for all parties concerned; that the gas tank had not ruptured.

As the tall man passed the firemen he quipped, “Sorry boys, I already put out the fire.”

Alabaster Hickey

Copyright © 2008 Jonathan Aspensen All rights reserved. No part of this website, nor any of its contents, may be reproduced in any form without the express written permission of Jonathan Aspensen.

The Big Bang

It had rained just enough the evening before to fog my school bus’ windshield with a thin, reflective sheen of dust, and when the sun hit it just right visibility was greatly reduced. For this reason I had the engine compartment open and I was precariously balanced atop one of my bus’ front tires trying to clean the broad plates of glass.

From behind me came an explosive sound of crushing metal, it immediately drew my attention away, and out toward the street. I first saw a transit bus come to a metal screeching, rubber flapping stop, I thought it had blown a tire, but then I looked beyond the bus and across from it was a small pick-up truck with flames flashing out from under its crumpled hood. I jumped down from the tire, grabbed the fire extinguisher from inside my bus and ran to the bus yard office.

“There ain’t no fire,” said a fellow bus driver who had heard the crash.

“The HELL there isn’t,” I retorted.

I swung open the rear door of the bus yard lounge and bolted around the tables and chairs, and passed my supervisor who was yelling, “WHERE’S THE FIRE EXTINGUISHERS?” I ran past her without saying a word and out the front door I flew. As I approached the pick-up truck I surveyed the heap of mangled metal for fuel leaks and fire.

The lady driving the pick-up was standing near a tree leaning over and bleeding from a nasty gash on her forehead. Moments later my supervisor came by and attended to the lady’s immediate needs.

When I looked in the blood splattered cab I saw between the dash and the floorboard a flaming nest of fire. I pointed the nozzle toward it, squeezed the extinguisher’s trigger, and the fire promptly surrendered. Two more fires were blazing under the pick-up’s hood and twice more I jerked the trigger.

The woman had had enough muddled cognizance to get out of her vehicle fast! I suspect the ball of fire that I saw leap from the engine, and the fact that flames were licking at her legs aided in her nimble response. The transit bus’ impact gave her little room to maneuver, but obviously under the circumstances it was enough!

The head rest of the driver’s seat had smashed through the rear window, and the steering wheel had to have been at chin level. Between the pick-up truck’s cab and front left tire—which, incidentally had been sheared off and was lying a good 50 feet aft—was an impressive dent that caused a rift in the pick-up’s interior. The impact was such that the floorboard was rent from the firewall just below the accelerator. The six inch gap (at its widest point) ran nearly the full width of the vehicle.

I asked a witness what had happened and he said that the transit bus was in the middle turn lane traveling way too fast and that it veered into the pick-up truck. The bus had sustained a dent to its front bumper and its windshield had several lateral and diagonal cracks running its length.

My supervisor asked me if I had any clean tissues and I said no as I patted my pockets just in case. But then feeling a lump in my rear pants pocket I pulled out a wad of paper towels I had intended to use on the windshield and handed them to her.

“Ah! Here, use these!” My supervisor promptly had the woman sit down and compressed the clump of paper to her bleeding forehead.

Once I felt that the area was secured and the danger of fire had been minimized, I stepped off the curb and turned back to the bus yard; but before I could take another step the sound of a fire truck rumbling down the road with its sirens wailing gave me cause to pause. They pulled up within 10 feet of the smashed pick-up, and out rolled three burly, well insulated, helmeted firemen. As they lumbered toward the wreck they wore on their faces expressions of astonishment. It was truly miraculous that the lady was not killed and, most fortunate, for all parties concerned; that the gas tank had not ruptured.

As I passed the firemen I quipped, “Sorry boys, I already put out the fire.”

Copyright © 2007 Jonathan Aspensen All rights reserved. No part of this website, nor any of its contents, may be
reproduced in any form without the express written permission of
Jonathan Aspensen.

Peace March in DC

There is no way that one can see all the history that Maryland and adjacent States have to offer without living in the vicinity. A week’s vacation is too short and thus far nine months has proven wholly inadequate as well.

A few months ago we visited our National Mall in DC and when we got on the Metro we noticed that there was an extraordinary amount of passengers aboard the train. We were soon to learn from conversations overheard that there was going to be a peace march from the National Mall to the Pentagon. The streets of DC were loaded with food vendors and button hawkers; the Mall truly had a carnival atmosphere. Two buttons in particular caught my eye, one was the ever pervasive peace symbol and the other was a mug shot of Che Guevara.

My wife asked a woman who the guest speakers were and this bubble eyed peacenik with perfect teeth said, “Susan Sarandon, Jane Fonda—of course—and Sean Penn.” I then quipped, “Was Forrest Gump there, did he speak?” This young lady gave me a look that could have killed.

There was also a police presence that could not have gone unnoticed; they were in the air circling in a helicopter, on horse back, and standing around observing the passersby. I had a sizeable backpack on that was loaded with a dynamite lunch my wife had made us, so when I walked by the police and Secret Service they paid me special attention. I stayed clear of the White House for that reason. I did not want to be tackled and have our cheese and pimento sandwiches mashed.

We ate our lunch in a sculpture garden near a huge monument to the wheel eraser. Remember them? They had a pink wheel at one end, and a bristle broom at the other. It was a great place to sit and feed sparrows the crust from my sandwich. In 10,000 years when our civilization is dust, what will archaeologist say of our time? I know what they will say; they will say that we “had an apparent propensity to err and worshipped our mistakes.”

At the end of the day we were swept down the Metro escalator by a crowd of weary peaceniks heading for the appropriate train. As we descended into the bowels of DC, a few enthusiasts for cut ‘n’ run began to sing John Lennon’s song, “Give Peace a Chance.” To our left a couple joined in, but soon it was evident that no one really cared, and the song washed out in mid-chorus:

"All we are saying is give peace a chance
All we are saying is give [it a rest, shut-up, and go home]… "

Copyright © 2007 Jonathan Aspensen All rights reserved. No part of this website, nor any of its contents, may be
reproduced in any form without the express written permission of
Jonathan Aspensen.