Rush Hour Entertainment

Rush Hour Entertainment

The drone of the rush hour traffic is suddenly punctuated by the
sickening, dull thud of flesh and bone in battle against the unyielding
polished metal of the cars body. He folds like a damp cloth as the
inertia of the impact scoops him up before tumbling onto the curvaceous
bonnet of the immaculately kept 70's Morris Minor. Thin streaks of
blood tarnish the mirror-like surface as they trace a path of reality
to the horrified driver. She tries to look away, hoping it's not for
real but watches involuntarily through raised hands as the lifeless
form rolls and slithers limply from the bonnet into a heap upon the
road's surface.

The rush hour continues for maybe a couple of seconds before passers-by
move into action. An attractive blonde girl, no more than 25 years old
takes charge, her boyfriend close behind.
'Will somebody phone for an ambulance!' she orders the bemused
passers-by, although she fears it may already be too late. Meaning well
but obviously not in the nursing profession they do little more than
kneel helplessly either side of the victim.

Another few seconds pass and the rush hour begins to grind to a halt.
No more than ten seconds later, those lucky enough to be in the right
place at the right time are steadfastly guarding their positions.
Vacant spaces immediately fill with the curious, the morbid and those
desperate for a story to tell their families over dinner of the 'dead
man in the High Street.'

The icy rain continues to fall but fails to tease any reaction from the
glazed, hypnotic eyes that stare almost life-like towards the heavens.
Not a solitary blink or twitch. His body, already overdue for a change
of position refuses to move. His pelvis, knocked ninety degrees askew
from his ribcage by the impact has settled in its newly found position.
Beneath his greying hair a small pool of blood gathers on the cold wet
tarmac as it flows from an unseen wound. Not a lot of blood given the
circumstances, and certainly not enough to please the crowd, but still
it drains the remaining colour from his greying skin.

A dear old lady, maybe in her mid seventies with her back to the heap
that litters the road, sobs as she reaches inside the car for her black
leather handbag and takes out a white lace handkerchief. A quick dab at
her moist eyes, a token blow of her nose and already she's leading in
the Sympathy Stakes with four do-gooders buzzing around her to the
lonesome two alongside the heap.
'It wasn't your fault, dear,' one of her entourage says, as she guides
her away from the scene. 'It was an accident. These things
happen.'
I wonder whether the same sympathy would be offered if the driver was a
young boy racer wearing the obligatory back to front baseball cap with
the latest techno-rap whatever-you-call-it type of music beating out
from his sticker-clad, fluffy dice decorated XR2. I doubt it.
But come on! This is just a dear old lady in her beloved Morris Minor,
going to the local supermarket to do her weekly shopping. She does the
same two-mile trip every week at this same time and nothing like this
has ever happened before.
'The ambulance is on its way!' calls the butcher, appropriately dressed
in a blood stained overall. His bulk fills the shop doorway across the
street as he waits, hands on hips for some kind of acknowledgement for
his humanitarian deed. The young girl attending to the body gives a
slight nod to thank him. Her boyfriend does the same. Pleased with his
good deed for the day, the butcher turns to carry on with business
knowing that it's already too late. He knows a lump of meat when he
sees one.

I watch the number 53 bus skirt carefully around the heap that
inconveniently straddles the white centre line, it's windows filling
with faces young and old of passengers eager for a glimpse, so they too
can share their few minutes of drama. The driver accelerates, drowning
the body with a cloud of dirty, acrid smoke from the ageing bus and
almost asphyxiating the couple of helpers brave enough to be at the
body's side. The girl sneers at the driver as she coughs, but with a
timetable to keep he can't be worrying about things like that. In any
case, it's not his fault that the bus company has made cuts with the
servicing of it's fleet.
'Where's the respect for the &;#8230;' she calls, stopping short of
the word 'dead.'
The old lady turns to her makeshift carer. 'Is he alright?' she asks,
her voice muffled behind the lace handkerchief.
'Well the ambulance is on its way,' she replies, skilfully avoiding the
question. She'd seen politicians do it on numerous occasions and I had
to admit that it was a good skill to have.

A tall well-dressed gentleman steps forward from the crowd, and
unbuttons his expensive looking knee length coat, in spite of the
rain.
'Here, throw this over him until the paramedics arrive!' he calls,
throwing it over and tucking it in around the body like a neatly
packaged parcel waiting to be sent off. 'He'll catch his death in
weather like this,' he adds flippantly.
The girl turns to him, and quietly says: 'He's already dead, I think he
must have been killed instantly.'
'My dear, no offence but only a doctor can pronounce someone dead,' he
retorts arrogantly, not even having the decency to look her in the
eye.
She leers at him. 'I'm sorry, I don't know your name but just look into
those eyes &;#8230; I'd say they're pretty damn lifeless, wouldn't
you? So don't treat me as another dumb blonde, thank you very much!'
She turns away momentarily before continuing her attack: 'besides, it
took you long enough to do something, didn't it? Just another
&;#8230; morbid bastard! &;#8230; Until your conscience got the
better of you, eh?'
He has no reply and turns to look to look at the crowd aimlessly.

Turning to the onlookers I see one or two starting to get bored and
wander away, their places filled with fresh faces eager for cold
curiosity. A new arrival pushes to the front of the crowd and catches a
quick glance.
'Look at the eyes, spooky aren't they?' I hear her say to no-one in
particular before she turns and goes on her way again, rushing as
people do at this time of day.
I too, cannot help myself and look again at the haunting, glassy look
that moments before were so full of life. As the colour drains from the
surrounding skin they take on another life of their own, and somehow
appearing more prominent. Slowly, eerily I feel myself being drawn in.
Offering no resistance to the strange inexplicable power they hold, the
sounds around me merge into a dull, seemingly monotonous tone, until
the piercing wail of sirens breaks the spell.
The crowd waits eagerly, while some mutter the obvious:
'Here they are now.'
'Make way for the ambulance!'
'Oh the paramedics will take care if it now.'
I wonder what they mean by 'it'? "The paramedics will take care of 'it'
now"? Do they mean 'it' the situation? Or do they mean the entity that
in an instant was metamorphosed from a 'he' to an 'it'?

The ambulance weaves through the now stationary traffic, sirens echo
around the busy narrow road, before pulling up abruptly on the far
side: a backdrop for the drama about to unfold. Heads start to bob and
dip as two paramedics take centre stage, their green uniforms guiding
the combined gaze of the again swollen crowd in their direction.
Now playing a minor role the old lady sheds more tears, filling her
handkerchief with sorrow and guilt. So sorry that she took her eyes off
the road to glance at the giant yellow eye-catching 'Buy One Get One
Free' poster filling the supermarket window.
'It's not your fault, dear,' she's reminded yet again. 'You mustn't
blame yourself.' With a little luck and more than a little counselling
she may even begin to believe it as well.

I move a little closer. I want a better view; hear what the paramedics
have to say. I won't be in anyone's way. I'm just a little curious,
that's all.
Discreetly he lifts the victims left arm and feels the cold, limp
wrist for a pulse, but already they know it's too late. With that
certain look in his eyes, and a slight nod of his head, no words are
needed. We all knew it anyway. I certainly did.
As the finale draws to a close the crowd slowly disperse, to continue
with their humdrum lives. The rush hour, although running late, can
rush once again.

I slowly float away, but not before I look down from high to the scene
below to see those haunted, lifeless eyes one last time. Yes, they are
spooky &;#8230; which is a shame really &;#8230; as everyone used
to say my eyes were my best feature.
Such is life!

***