My phone rang. Unknown number. I answered and expected to hear a robo-recording about important information regarding my automotive warranty. But it was a young man who I am going to call Bobby.
“Hello, is this Sean?”
“Yes.”
Bobby had a story he wanted to share, and apparently I was the guy he was going to share it with. He was adamant about this.
“Do you have a pen?” were his first words.
“How’d you get this number?” I said.
“Your wife gave it to me.”
“Ah.”
“I’m on my lunch break,” Bobby went on. “I’m kinda in a hurry. I don’t have long. You’re gonna wanna take notes. I got a lotta cool stuff to tell you.”
Only, it bears mentioning, Bobby never actually used the word “stuff.” Bobby prefers another famous word beginning with the letter S. This word, I quickly learned, is one of Bobby’s favorite expletives. But since this is a family column, I will use “stuff.”
In the background I could I hear factory sounds and industrial noises. “Where are you?” I asked. “I can hardly hear
you.”
“I work at a mill.”
I got my pen ready. “Go ahead,” I said.
Bobby said he was coming home late from work one night six years ago. He was speeding when a vehicle pulled in front of him on the wet pavement.
He slammed his brakes. He fishtailed on the rural highway. He doesn’t totally remember what happened, but he remembers the sound of the tires screaming.
He was thrown from the car, then pinned against a tree by the same vehicle he was driving. The odds of this happening are almost five trillion to one. Even the emergency workers couldn’t explain how this had occurred.
“It was some really whacked out stuff, man.”
Bobby was alone in the middle of the woods, trapped against a tree by his own bumper. And did I mention he…