Last week, beneath a hot November sun, among the bustle of 23rd street, a bus barreled within a few whiskers of my face. The rush of air and diesel exhaust twisted my insides. As my soles gripped the curb, the weight of shock settled into the concrete. The walk to Central Park added another brush with death to my memory.
Up til then, I performed the New York pedestrian dance. Step into the street, peek up from iPhone, look both ways, or don’t, check blind spots, or don’t, and cross between the gaps in yellow cabs and tinted Suburbans. Resisting the instinct to step in the street saved my life. Buses lack the patience to dance. They storm the faded red paint of the bus lane, splitting seas of cyclists and jaywalkers.
Eyes wide, mouth open, I staggered on the sidewalk. The crowds hustled through the intersection, consumed by their own worlds, oblivious to an evaded tragedy. My knee itched. The walk signal blinked white and I crossed the intersection. Past reminders of my mortality accompanied the rest of the journey to meet my little nephew in the park.
Brushes with death accumulate over time, painting a collage of memories that flash the greatest hits after each new addition.
In the summer before I graduated college, a car put a hole in my knee. Coming around a corner, no traffic lights, a girl with a freshly minted driver’s license t-boned my bicycle. The collision wrecked the bike and threw me a couple car lengths into the opposite lane. Luckily, there was no oncoming traffic, just me, mangled handlebars, and a chunk of my knee across the asphalt.
The friend riding with me dropped her own bike, dashed around the sedan, and kneeled to inspect the damage. While she shuddered from the scene, I suggested we find a ride home. To be clear, her response was more appropriate. Shock held my rationality hostage until later that evening in a hospital bed. Blood and gauze filled my kneecap. Pumped with enough ibuprofen to dissolve my stomach lining, I leaned over to my friend, declaring “I got hit by a car.”
You seldom process the severity of such events. It must be some self-protection performed by a primitive part of the brain. How else do you cope with the passing threat of irreversible catastrophe? Are we born this way?
Around the time I lost my first tooth, in a back room of our family’s house, I was alone with a much older kid. My voice annoyed them. My hunger for attention disturbed their cartoons. I struggled for air as the kid pressed a pillow over my mouth. Trapped under that plump sack of feathers, did I kick my tiny legs and arms? Did I scream? As my parents tell it, an adult who happened to walk by stopped my suffocation. “The nick of time.”
A brush with death. An intervention by random chance.
Cycling through these memories, I continued my walk uptown. Check for the lights. Wait for the cars. Don’t trust the people. My heightened awareness and the prospect of my little nephew’s toothy grin, giggling down the playground slide, propelled me to Central Park.
We met a few blocks away. Little nephew buckled in tight, we strolled past scents of luxury perfume stores, horse-drawn carriages, and hot dog carts to enter the park. Before we reached the playground, the bubbly child hopped out, ran across the grass, and climbed a boulder just taller than me. He stood up, smiling at his mother. Impressive kid.
Big rocks instill confidence. On a different Central Park boulder, a year before the car accident, I tried to impress a girl. As a frequent feat of strength, a buddy of mine used to let me vault over him. Run, jump, press my hands into his shoulders, lift my legs over him, and land gently on both feet. I figured myself an acrobat. Why not replicate this over the edge of a fifteen foot rock? My crush would be so impressed. Hah. My bloody forehead and undiagnosed concussion proved otherwise.
Luck saved me again. That time, from my own poor decisions.
After pulling my nephew down from the boulder, we made it to the playground. When was the last time you watched children go ham on a jungle gym? They waddled across the ground, screamed for attention, scaled bars and ladders, rolled backwards down polished slides, face planted into wood chips, giggled and repeat. My nephew hung upside down on a metal pole. I hovered below, hands ready to save him. Through too much rumination on mortality, my layers of fear and hesitancy hardened over time. This child enjoyed the playground with abandon. Sure, he fell, got a few scrapes, but then rolled over and kept playing.
Children teach fearlessness and pure joy.
Whether random, deliberate, or ill-advised, reminders of mortality are part of living. Be cautious, evade the predictable dangers, but try to treat more of life as a playground. Yes, we age, the falls hurt more, and the risks are more obvious. We can still climb.
Dust off. Keep playing.
Fam, welcome back.
I hope those memories, especially the one of my cute little nephew, sparked something for you.
Yesterday, my friend
held a roundtable conversation about community. He presented the following quote:“Safety is not the absence of threat; it is the presence of connection.” — Dr. Gabor Mate
A provocative statement, which I’m not yet sure if I agree. But, it struck me while I was writing this week’s essay. As people have come and gone the past few years, my concept of community changed.
I often reflect on mortality. The practice helps me put life in perspective. Obsessing over it isn’t healthy, but I think striving for a balance and peace with the inevitable is healthy.
Discussion questions for this week:
Have you had close calls that were a bit too close?
What does safety mean to you?
Overheard on the street
“Sucks that you can’t eat cheese because this cheesesteak is probably the greatest thing in the world.”
Writing and life
New York: We officially found an apartment! So much closer to being settled. Now we just need to move our stuff, then I can set up a little library / study where all this amazing writing will continue to evolve.
Also, shout out to the Met. I went multiple times last week. Museums always inspire me with new writing ideas. For twenty minutes, I sat with this guy here:
Fiction: The next two weeks are all about this first chapter of the novel and the next short story. There was a tie in last week’s poll between the pointillism story and the friends playing spades. So, we’ll see which one I write as they are my favorite ideas right now. Both leave room to explore negative space and words left unsaid.
Recommended tastes from my artistic taste
📝 Short Story Spotlight: “Pretty Boy Crossover” by Pat Cadigan
Stories about the ‘self’ resonate with me the most. I love the timeless existential questioning about who, what, and why we are. The setting is vivid and accomplishes deep world-building in a small number of pages.
📺 Just watch it: “The Penguin” on HBO
We still have two episodes left to finish, but it’s so GOOD! Writing, characters, acting, mood, all of it. You love a good drama? This is for you.
🎶 Jam to lighten the mood: “If You (Wanna Dance Tonight)” by Toshiki Kadomatsu
Before you go
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Love,
Wes
If this is your first time reading Wednesday Wesdom, welcome again! Here are a few stories to check out in addition to last week’s post:
"Brushes with death accumulate over time, painting a collage of memories that flash the greatest hits after each new addition." THIS is excellent.
Congrats on the apartment 🍾 I really like the narrative transitions from these stories. From “my knee itched” to a hole in it to a chunk across the pavement. I enjoyed how events spiraled out and back, while still expanding. Also appreciate the nice bow of a lesson. I just might climb a tree today 🤷🏾♂️