Twisted Metal
April 22, 1994
The garbage truck came out of nowhere.
Jackson’s ears popped. A flash of white seared his eyes as coarse nylon canvas raked across his face. It sounded like a bomb had gone off. His arm slammed against the underside of the dashboard, his brand-new Motorola beeper, still illuminated with his wife’s last message to “pick up milk,” tumbling to the floorboard. Metal twisted around him like warm taffy.
A second deafening crash chased the first, this time from the passenger’s side. His head whipped toward the center column and then back against the driver’s side window, shattering the glass with the sound of a blown-up paper bag popped by a prankster.
His lights went out for a second—or a year—he couldn’t be sure which. An intense ringing in his ears followed. And then everything went quiet. What happened? he wondered. His head throbbed worse than the nastiest hangover, yet he hadn’t been drinking. It was a deep, encompassing hurt, the kind where he just knew that something in his brain was broken. A cloud of chalky dust burned his eyes. He struggled to focus on the steering wheel in front of him. The vomited remains of a deflated balloon hung from a gash in the center. He gagged on his next breath of lingering airbag dust.
God, his head hurt.
The world calmed for the longest second before he could hear people talking, though he couldn’t make out what they said at first. They sounded distant and deeply concerned.
“Did anyone call 9-1-1?” someone asked.
“I think so,” someone else answered.
He heard far-off sirens, quiet at first, but growing louder than mating cats. He hoped they were for him because something was seriously wrong. They stopped somewhere behind his car, though he couldn’t turn his head to see where. Red lights danced across his dashboard. He tried to blink away the haze. Blood ran down his face and his head felt like someone had torn his scalp apart.
“Hold on, buddy,” someone shouted from behind.
Pushing past the pain in his head, he noticed a new pain in his chest that pierced from his sternum through to his spine. “Wh-wh-what happened?” he asked.
“You’ve been in a wreck,” the stranger’s voice answered, this time right beside him. “I’m with the Fire Department. I’m here to help.”
Thank God.
The fireman shouted, “Working extrication, Lieu.”
Just outside his door, a sound like a lawnmower engine choked to life. The motor rumbled and then revved to a shrill, relentless screech.
“Cover his face,” another man shouted. “We’re gonna cut the A-post.”
What the Hell’s an A-post? Maybe he should just climb out and get a ride home. Jenna was waiting for him. He tried to move his leg, but knives stabbed his ankle.
“Hold still,” a woman shouted over the engine noise. Her voice carried a Southern twang. He wondered how she had climbed into the back seat without him noticing. She cupped gloved hands around his head. “Hold still, cowboy. You’re trapped in your car and we’re gonna cut you out. What’s your name?”
“Jackson,” he answered, gasping at the pain in his chest.
“Jackson what?”
“Foster … Am I dying?”
Her breath tickled his ear when she spoke again. “We’re doing everything we can to keep that from happening, Jackson. Now stop moving your dang neck.”
“My …” A muffled grunt interrupted him. A moment passed before he realized it was his own. “My leg hurts,” he struggled to say.
“I know. We’re gonna help you, but you need to stay calm.”
He thought he was staying calm.
Someone else shouted, “Make sure the car’s in park and kill the ignition.” Jackson surmised they weren’t talking to him.
He wanted to rub his burning eyes, but his arms wouldn’t move, pinned to his sides by a straitjacket made of jagged metal. All he could do was blink until he could see clearer.
Through his smashed windshield he saw a tool that resembled a giant metal alligator clip with hoses protruding from all sides resting on the hood. It looked like something made for a Mad Max movie. A fireman lifted it with a grunt. It looked heavy.
Someone draped a white sheet over Jackson’s head, which was quite alarming. As far as he knew, that’s what they did when you were dead. Or dying, maybe. He took as deep a breath as he could.
“Jackson, my name’s Jennifer,” the woman behind him said. She was under the sheet with him.
He chuckled, making his chest hurt even more. “That’s like my wife’s name.” He wasn’t sure why he was telling her that, but felt like it was the right thing to say.
“Then it’ll be easy for you to remember,” she answered. “Now, you gotta hold still.”
He had never heard metal being torn apart before, but it was a unique cacophony of squealing, grinding, and crinkling. Any glass that hadn’t broken in the crash crackled and popped as the machine revved and ripped at the car door. The car jerked and rocked with each powerful crunch of the alligator jaws.
The jagged metal straitjacket pinning his left arm to his chest popped loose, though it didn’t completely break free.
The car jolted again. Then the lawnmower engine sputtered and stopped.
“Is he dead?” a man asked.
“Back up to the curb,” a stern voice snapped back.
The sheet lifted away from Jackson’s face, revealing the crowd that had formed. He was embarrassed that everyone was looking at him and didn’t want them seeing him carried away. I should climb out now, he thought.
“Hold still,” Jennifer reminded him. “We’re gonna lift you out, but let us do all the work. It’s important not to move.”
This was the first clear look he had gotten of the garbage truck. Flashing lights flickered across the side. Other than the front tire being flat, he couldn’t see any damage. 1989 Chrysler LeBarons were obviously no match for garbage trucks. The driver stood hunched over, rubbing the back of his neck. A paramedic leaned over beside him, talking.
“Is he okay?” Jackson asked.
“Yeah,” Jennifer answered. “Don’t worry about him.”
A police officer climbed out of the cab, waved a flask in the driver’s face, and ordered him to put his hands behind his back.
Someone in the crowd yelled, “Holy shit, that garbage man’s drunk.”
Someone else answered, “Who gets drunk this early?”
A fireman shoved something hard, flat, and uncomfortable under Jackson’s left hip. The fireman said, “All right. Pivot him.” Gloved hands grabbed his arms and legs and pulled. He spun to face the passenger door.
The only thing worse than the pain in his leg was the pressure growing in his head. He hadn’t thought it could hurt any worse, but it did. He slid onto a flat wooden board. The pain in his lower leg briefly eclipsed the pain in his chest and head. He gritted his teeth and groaned.
“Hold his leg together,” one of the firemen said.
That didn’t sound good.
As they carried him from his car, he saw a fireman hauling his door away. He started to panic.
“You’ve gotta control your breathing,” Jennifer said in his ear and then leaned into his field of vision. He looked into her hazel eyes. She gave him a comforting smile. “There you go. Now focus. Just breathe.”
He wanted to do as she asked, but it was too hard.
“We’re gonna move you now,” she said.
As he seemed to float from his car to the stretcher, he looked past her to the sky. It was a clear, chilly morning and he marveled at how nice a day it was for everyone not named Jackson. His eyelids suddenly dropped as if they wore weights. Maybe he could just sleep for a little while.
“Stay with us, buddy,” one of the firemen said as he tightened a seatbelt across Jackson’s already tight chest. It was nearly impossible to take a deep breath now. But Jackson was too tired to care. As they slid him into the back of the ambulance, his thoughts turned fuzzy. The paramedics were talking to him—he could see their lips moving—but their voices came from the other end of a long tunnel and didn’t make any sense. They sounded like Charlie Brown’s teacher. His body went numb. At least the pain had gone away.
He was so tired.
