Last night in Oakland, the neighbors gathered on the street to view the wreckage. At about 11:25. just as I was drifting off, I heard the crash of metal--a familiar sound on our street. This one sounded bad. No squealing tires, just thud, then thud, then thud again. And then, the sounds of my neighbors: Call 911. Four cars. Looks bad.
Once or twice a year, we all turn out and have a gruesome sort of block party. We live on a hill, south of I-580. No speed bumps, just a fast ride down for a heavy-footed cruiser. It's not a rich neighborhood. Most of my neighbors have to park on the street. Two doors down is the house we call the Death Spot. The house in the curve. Any car parked in front of this house always gets creamed. (Once, the house itself got creamed.) Last night, it was a green Toyota pickup that did a 180 and landed in the yard next door. The speedster ended up across the street, nearly on somebody's porch. But it's all good. He's fine, a little confused--how'd I get here, he wondered. Meanwhile, my neighbors are wondering how they'll get to work in the morning, and if the guy had insurance (no), and if they (we) can ever get off this block.