Nov. 11, 2000, featured a mild November evening, and I was 15 years old as I rode in my sister Quinn's car to a friend's house for a sleepover. Quinn's boyfriend Pat claimed the passenger seat, and I happily spread out in the back. The sun just dipped below the trees and I drank in what was left of the beautiful orange haze it had left behind. We were less than two miles from our destination, entering the first severe turn of the S-curve on Pleasant Valley Road, when I saw it. A car was overturned in the tall brush on the side of the road. The engine was still steaming. I screamed.
Quinn and Pat saw it too. We quickly turned the car around to help, parking on a portion of a dirt road split by the curve. Pat and I sprang from the car and ran out into weeds, that whipped at our legs and left our jeans wet with dew. Quinn rushed to another car that had arrived on the scene to call 911.
Nearly dark now, in the distance I could see a figure pacing back and forth in the fog of the new dusk. I called out, asking if anyone needed help. A man's cold reply followed. "No. Everything's fine," he said.
Then after a long pause he asked, "Do you know how to take a pulse?"
The man, who I later found out was named Peter, but called Pedro by close friends, was clearly in a panic now. I ran toward him as my brain tried to work through the first aid and CPR training I had received in my high school health class.
I gasped when I saw his body. Josh lay seemingly lifeless on the ground. He had been thrown from the car when it rolled. His head was tilted back and a stream of blood leaked from his eye. I could tell he had a strong build underneath the heather gray sweatshirt, baggy jeans and work boots he wore. But in this moment he was weak. I put my fingers to his neck and found a faint pulse. My touch had given a shock to Josh's system and he started to breathe when I pulled my hand away. His chest convulsed with each breath as he struggled to survive.
Peter tried to comfort his friend and asked me to do the same. I told Josh he was going to be Okay. More people from other cars who had stopped to help surrounded him, covering him in blankets for warmth and praying for his recovery. I hadn't even noticed the drop in temperature. I was still in shock when the paramedics arrived. I stepped away to give the EMTs space as they worked to save Josh. The gravity of what had happened hit me hard when I saw the wreckage. Beer bottles, broken CDs and shattered window glass covered the ground. I broke down and Pat hugged me.
We set off to find my sister in all the chaos. People were everywhere. A mix of onlookers, police and medical staff scurried around us. Traffic on Pleasant Valley Road had slowed to a crawl as officers tried to direct cars away from the accident scene. The night was pitch black but it looked bright as day around the wreckage. Road flares, bright headlights and flashlights lit up the area. We found Quinn standing near a police officer and a man who was sitting on the ground with his legs straight out in front of him.
The man had a large, deep gash on his chin. His skin pulled away from the bone and hung down as blood dripped off of it. He was wearing a heavy plaid flannel shirt and jeans, which were soaked in fresh urine, and he exasperatedly said he couldn’t feel his legs. I instantly knew this man had been the driver of the smashed, black Pontiac. I listened as the police officer questioned him and rescue workers attempted to bandage his face. His name was Brian, and he and his two passengers, Peter and Josh, were only 22 and 23 years old. He claimed he had only had about five beers and lost control of the car when he swerved to avoid hitting another driver that had crossed the centerline on the sharp turn. I could tell by the officer’s tone he didn’t believe Brian’s story and neither did I. He had to be drunk. Brian kept asking about his friend Josh. He wanted to know he was okay, that he hadn’t hurt his friend. I couldn’t look at him.
A police officer asked Quinn, Pat and me to stay for questioning since we were the first on the scene. There wasn’t much to tell though, as we hadn’t actually seen the accident occur. By the time we got back into Quinn’s car, Josh had been put in an ambulance and whisked off to the nearest hospital. That night, 22-year-old Joshua R. Burton passed away. Yet, more than one life was forever changed that night. I imagine friends and family of Brian, Josh and Peter as well as random strangers like me who happened to be in the right place at the right time will always remember Nov. 11, 2000. And though we all may remember it a little bit differently, the important thing is that we remember.
No comments:
Post a Comment