News item: Man carrying flowers hit by car downtown.

“near or in the crosswalk”

Consider the “reporting” behind this story.

“Hey, I saw some emergency vehicles near Main and Browne this afternoon. Does anyone know what happened?”

“Some guy was crossing the street and he got hit by a car.”

“Whoa. Was he hurt?”

“He was in pain.”

“So he was conscious?”

“Yeah, he was talking. They took him away in the ambulance.”

“Do you know who he is?”

“No, but he was carrying a bouquet of flowers.”

“Was he in the crosswalk?” 

“Don’t know. He wasn’t lying in the crosswalk afterwards…”

A news item is born. 

“Man carrying flowers”

How about some more details?

The man, who was crossing the street in the crosswalk with the traffic light granting him right of way, was carrying a vase of fresh flowers and also an open umbrella. It had been raining off and on that day. The umbrella was lying on the street, inside out, when his family arrived, panicked and afraid because all they knew was that he’d been hit by a car and was lying in the street.

More details: he was wearing what had been a crisp white shirt, fresh blue jeans, and a sport coat. When his family arrived, he was drenched from the falling rain and lying on his backpack. 

“near or in the crosswalk”–that short bit of reporting struck a nerve with members of the man’s family.

You see, he had waited on the corner for the walk sign, then checked for any oncoming traffic and made his way a good 10 steps out into the street when he was suddenly struck by the car, lifted into the air, and found himself looking at his feet which were mysteriously now above his head. The vase of flowers–vibrant red roses and dark pink chrysanthemums, meant for his daughter for her birthday–flew from his hand and shattered, spilling the flowers onto the pavement. The blooms lay in disarray, some still clinging to one another as though determined to remain arranged, while others lay about singly.

This was an abrupt ending to a joyous celebration the man carries out every year. His daughter’s birthday is an event he brings his unique, heartfelt, and particular expression to. He has been known to drive downtown just to choose flowers from a particular store because they are fresh, vibrant, and arranged so carefully. On this particular day, he rode a bus from the valley, having rearranged his schedule just to be with his daughter and his wife downtown, then shopped for the flowers and a box of chocolates, and began walking along Main Avenue, checking for his family members in their usual haunts. He sent his wife a brief text message asking where they were, so when her phone rang a few minutes later, she said “Oh, here he is!”–and thought he might be having trouble finding them.

The voice on the other end asked for her by name and then said “Your husband is all right, but he has been hit by a car on Main and Browne. He is here with me, lying on the street.” Confusion and shock. Then both women reacted with their own unique styles–one in full flight, the other more slowly, as though swimming through air suddenly made of gel.

As they rushed to get to him, both were confronted by impatient drivers (half the street was blocked by the car that struck him) and helpful passersby who were directing traffic. One driver decided it would be faster for him to sweep between the sidewalk and where the man was lying so he could be on his way. Things to do; places to be, after all. This detail stood out vividly to the man lying in the street.

When something catastrophic happens, we are often reduced to nameless beings identifiable only by something we’re wearing, or something we’re carrying, or something we’re doing. “Man carrying flowers.” The woman who drove the care that hit the man was distraught and even called the man’s wife on her cell phone to check on him is represented only as “the driver of the sedan.” The sedan is given more characteristic description than she is given. At least we can picture a sedan in our heads. What does “the driver” look like or sound like? The off duty nurse who called me is someone who doesn’t even appear in this account, and yet she was central to reuniting “the man with flowers’” family with him as he lay in the street.

Those flowers. Emergency personnel helped gather the flowers as the man was loaded into the back of the ambulance. They handed the now-sad little remains of the bouquet to his wife, who rode in the front seat of the ambulance. The flowers looked alien inside the ambulance cab and even more alien when the ER nurse put them in a plastic cup of water in the man’s hospital room. His daughter could not even look at them.