Work Week
480 words, didn't time but something like 25 minutes. alternate title: convoluted.
Frank hadn’t talked talked to his mother in 7 years or seen her in 11, so he wasn’t sure how to feel when he got the next-of-kin notification call from the police. Officer Richardson -- who was harried but still tried to sound sympathetic – didn’t have much to say. She died; the details of her death were spotty. Had the cop had the full story of the old [really middle aged by today’s count] lady’s passing, it would have started back on Monday.
She had been hit by a car around 3:00 that afternoon. It was an accident. Pure and simple. The driver pulled into the intersection just as she was crossing against the light. He hit her. She fell down. He stopped. She got up, insisted she was fine and refused to go to the hospital -- against all his attempts to persuade her – or even wait for the police, whom he called anyway. By the time the lone cop arrived she’d walked away and was long gone. The driver made a police report and then went on with his life, likely a bit relieved.
She went home, drank a glass of ice water, lay down on the bed and slept a dead sleep. She woke up the next day, put on pink trousers and a loose fitting white t-shirt, over which she layered pink vest to match the pants. In the 98 degree heat, which the humidity made feel more like 103, said the news people with glee to anyone who would listen, she went for a walk. At a stop sign, she stumbled. The pole steadied her for an instant but couldn’t keep her from keeling over. This time, she was still there when the police arrived, called by a bystander who didn’t stop and wait. [Irony.] This time, an ambulance came too. She was dead on arrival that Tuesday afternoon.
The doctor said she’d suffered a blunt trauma, probably from a fall. Everyone was too busy to put it all together and no family or friends clamored for them to do so. Her son’s number was buried deep in her wallet, so the officer who followed her to the ER – he needed to see it through for his report – called him. The ‘case’ was closed. Monday’s driver and the cop that took his report never knew that he’d actually killed a person, which is good. Tuesday’s cop knew she died but didn’t have their knowledge of her last 24 hours.
On Friday, after the Officer finally got around to calling him, Frank tried to figure out how to feel. He drank his coffee and thought about it a while longer, until he saw the blue ceramic of the mug’s bottom. Placing the empty cup in the sink, still unsure of the proper emotion for the circumstance, he started to think about funeral arrangements.
Frank hadn’t talked talked to his mother in 7 years or seen her in 11, so he wasn’t sure how to feel when he got the next-of-kin notification call from the police. Officer Richardson -- who was harried but still tried to sound sympathetic – didn’t have much to say. She died; the details of her death were spotty. Had the cop had the full story of the old [really middle aged by today’s count] lady’s passing, it would have started back on Monday.
She had been hit by a car around 3:00 that afternoon. It was an accident. Pure and simple. The driver pulled into the intersection just as she was crossing against the light. He hit her. She fell down. He stopped. She got up, insisted she was fine and refused to go to the hospital -- against all his attempts to persuade her – or even wait for the police, whom he called anyway. By the time the lone cop arrived she’d walked away and was long gone. The driver made a police report and then went on with his life, likely a bit relieved.
She went home, drank a glass of ice water, lay down on the bed and slept a dead sleep. She woke up the next day, put on pink trousers and a loose fitting white t-shirt, over which she layered pink vest to match the pants. In the 98 degree heat, which the humidity made feel more like 103, said the news people with glee to anyone who would listen, she went for a walk. At a stop sign, she stumbled. The pole steadied her for an instant but couldn’t keep her from keeling over. This time, she was still there when the police arrived, called by a bystander who didn’t stop and wait. [Irony.] This time, an ambulance came too. She was dead on arrival that Tuesday afternoon.
The doctor said she’d suffered a blunt trauma, probably from a fall. Everyone was too busy to put it all together and no family or friends clamored for them to do so. Her son’s number was buried deep in her wallet, so the officer who followed her to the ER – he needed to see it through for his report – called him. The ‘case’ was closed. Monday’s driver and the cop that took his report never knew that he’d actually killed a person, which is good. Tuesday’s cop knew she died but didn’t have their knowledge of her last 24 hours.
On Friday, after the Officer finally got around to calling him, Frank tried to figure out how to feel. He drank his coffee and thought about it a while longer, until he saw the blue ceramic of the mug’s bottom. Placing the empty cup in the sink, still unsure of the proper emotion for the circumstance, he started to think about funeral arrangements.
posted by Snado at 8:03 AM
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