September 2–9, 1999

pretzel logic

Hit & Run Neighbor

We all have times in our lives when it feels like we’ve been hit by a truck. A couple of weeks ago, I discovered what it feels like for real. And before I even landed on the ground, I knew it would make a good story.

It was a Friday night. I was heading for an end-of-the-summer beer at Dirty Frank’s, my favorite warm-weather watering hole.

My arrival was delayed an hour or so by a very large pickup rounding the intersection of Pine and 11th at a very quick pace.

Somewhere between the time I was airborne and the time I fell back down to earth, I noticed that the truck, after it hit me, slowed to a crawl and then took off down 11th in a hurry, heading for Chinatown.

Pissed off that someone would be so rude, the first thing I did upon realizing I was relatively fine was call the police.

As I dusted myself off, a crowd gathered. People were quick to offer comfort and aid.

Duane Gould, who I later found out is a 29-year-old boilermaker from Germantown, had just finished dropping his niece off when the accident happened. As I stood on the corner, a large, throbbing, bloody purple knot in my left leg, Gould walked up and handed me a piece of paper.

"Red Supercab F150" was written in blue ink, as was the tag number.

"Thanks, man," I said, glancing down at the paper and then at the witness.

I asked Gould for his name and number and handed him my pen. Gould smiled, scribbled down the information, then turned and disappeared into the night as quickly as he’d appeared.

I was mightily impressed. Still am.

Assured that I would live, the well-wishers returned to their journeys. In a bit, a big red fire truck, lights flashing, lumbered up to the curb. Two EMTs hopped out, examined my leg, told me it didn’t look broken and asked me if I wanted to go to the hospital.

Not wanting to hang around sick people for five hours waiting to be told I needed ice, I thanked the men anyway, signed their clipboard and wished them a good night.

As I waited for the police to arrive on the very busy corner, bikers and pedestrians noticed my mangled wheel and bloody leg and asked me if I was OK.

"Got hit by a truck," I told them. "Asshole in a red truck. Hit me and ran."

More than one recalled a similar experience. A long-haired biker from Russia stopped and told me, in all the gory detail, about how he had been hit by a truck. Almost killed.

It’s hell out there for bikers, I tells ya.

Finally, a police car showed up.

Cop inside was friendly enough, asking me how I was doing and what had happened.

I told him the story and gave him the information Duane had provided. Gave him Duane’s name and number, too. The officer took it all in and radioed the information into dispatch. I asked the cop if he would give me the address. He said he couldn’t, which I understood.

After recording the pertinent facts, the cop took a look at my bike and apologetically told me that Friday nights were too busy to shuttle me back to Grays Ferry.

I thanked the officer, picked up my battered bicycle and carried it to my destination, where Jodi poured me a beer while Sheila got me a rag and some ice.

I drank the Yuengling, held the rag to my leg and recounted what happened.

"Two days," I said to someone. "Police have two days to find the guy. Then it’s my turn."

 

Arriving back at the Ferry, I told my next-door neighbor about the F150.

"Did that truck have a stripe?" he asked. I nodded.

"My bass player has an F150. Drives like a maniac."

We all laughed.

I know Billy. I’ve loaded equipment into the truck.

Why would he hit me and run? What are the odds?

We laughed some more and I went to bed.

Two days came and passed and no word from the cops, not that I blame them. It’s a dangerous town.

So I made a call. Found the name and address.

It was just a few blocks from my house.

Billy.

Like I said, what are the odds?

I drove by the house. The next morning I went up and knocked on the door. His father answered.

"Billy hit me with his truck," I told the father, handing him my card. "He wrecked my wheel. Have him give me a call. We gotta talk."

Later that day, I received a call.

"Friday night?" said the voice, sheepishly.

"Billy, you idiot, why the hell did you hit me and take off?"

Billy apologized profusely and asked me what I wanted to do. I told him to meet me in the office.

"Are you packing heat?" he asked.

 

When Billy walked into the office, he seemed surprised that it was me, as if there were dozens of news editors who call him up about getting hit by trucks.

Billy apologized again and told me why he’d run.

"I thought you were a big black man who would beat me up," he said.

Yah.

At any rate, Billy did the right thing and had the bike fixed.

Many who heard this story urged me to sue, a suggestion I politely declined.

My leg still aches, but the bike, a present from my wife, works fine.

And now I know from experience that getting hit by a pickup is nothing compared to getting hit by a subpoena.