One Weekend, while visiting family on Vancouver Island, the subject of “death" came up...twice. Once during dinner with a pedophile, and once after nearly being hit by a pick-up truck. Who says life isn’t interesting?
The two incidences went something like this:
* * * *
Friday Night:
“Do you mind if I join you?” the unwelcomed guest asked, pulling a chair over from another table and making himself comfortable at ours. “I’m just waiting for a table.” My dad shot me an all-too familiar dirty look.
“Sure,” I replied, knowing it was futile to say no. Something about this uninvited stranger was familiar. I’d grown up in Courtenay, but I’d moved away over 21 years ago. Over the years, faces changed, people changed, and the town changed.
“Have you ordered yet?”
“Yes, we have.” I answered. “I’m visiting from out of town. We were long overdue for some father-daughter time.” I volunteered, hoping he'd get the hint, but he didn't.
Soon our dinner arrived, but our exasperating dinner guest remained as he nurtured a mug of coffee, all the while regaling us with boring stories of how, when he was younger, he traveled the world, raised two girls with his first wife, and even though he’s only 71 years old, he should be dead because of a bad heart. Maybe his bad heart hadn’t killed him yet, but this conversation was definitely killing me.
I should have been interested, but I wasn’t. It'd been an excruciatingly long day of traveling from Vancouver to Courtenay, not to mention I was starving and in no mood to listen to some self-aborbed narcististic asshole talk about himself, not letting either of us get a word in edgeways. My dad and I ate quietly, grimacing as we tried to block out the sound of Asshole’s annoying voice. But I still couldn’t shake the familiar feeling I had.
“Quinton!” the waitress hollared at our table. Asshole turned to face her. “Come on, Quinton,” she said. “Your table’s ready; table 3, the usual.” Without so much as a word, Quinton picked up his now empty coffee mug and shuffled over to the waitress, disappearing through a door to another part of the restaurant. Quinton never even said “thank you” or “good-bye”. “Social retard,” I muttered to myself. But at least we were finally alone.
Quinton? Now that’s an unusual name. I knew that name. And then it hit me like a tonne of bricks. I did know Quinton. Of course I knew Quinton! He mentioned he had two daughters; both of whom I went to high school with. Sadly, however, about a dozen years after high school, I learned that Quinton had sexually abused his daughters.
“Great", I thought to myself. My dad and I had just shared our meal with a pedophile. The thought made me sick to my stomach, which churned slightly as I recalled the many conversations I’d shared with Quinton back in the 80s when I worked at the video store, where he was a regular customer. Had he looked at me “that way”? Had I a lucky escape? Or was I too old for him by then? Quinton was right about one thing for sure, he should have been dead by now and not because of his bad heart.
In the end, I decided not to share Quinton’s true identity with my dad. I didn’t want to completely ruin his evening.
* * * *
Sunday Morning:
“You scared the fucking SHIT OUT OF ME”! I screamed at the driver of the pick-up truck, who finally stopped, albeit too late. “You could have FUCKING KILLED ME!!” The adrenaline was coursing through my veins, and I was swearing like a drunken sailor.
Unlike the driver of the pick-up truck, I was obeying the traffic laws. I was making my way to Thrifty’s to buy cigarrettes and even though the streets were empty, I waited for the walk signal before crossing. But it wasn’t surprising the streets were empty; it's a very small town and early on a Sunday morning.
Finally, the signal changed to “walk” and I started to carry on my way. But out of nowhere came a pick-up truck and I sensed it wasn’t slowing down. Then suddenly, for the first time in my life, I came face-to-face with the grill of a truck, and face-to-face with a real life-or-death situation. Just like in the movies, I frantically waved my arms in the air and then with lightening speed bolted out of the way. How many times I’d seen people do that in the movies? I always thought it looked so dramatic, but oddly enough I naturally reacted the same way.
“I’m sorry,” the young driver politely said, smiling. “I didn’t see you.”
“No shit, Sherlock!” I yelled back at his smug, smiling face, competely oblivious to what had just happened. “You nearly FUCKING KILLED ME!”
I watched as the smile disappeared from his face. “Too right,” I thought to myself. I didn’t know what was worse - the idiotic smug expression on his child-like face, or the fact that he nearly ran me over with his truck.
“I said I was sorry,” he offered defensively, rolling his window down. “What’s your problem?”
“You’re my fucking problem, you fucking idiot,” I yelled back at him. “You nearly fucking killed me! You scared the shit out of me.” He stared blankly back at me, still clueless to what I was talking about.
“I didn’t see you!” The young idiotic driver of the pickup truck replied, raising his voice at me.
“Learn to fucking drive, you FUCKING IDIOT” I screamed back at him, and realizing I was still standing in the middle of the street and holding up traffic, decided any further conversation with this kid was futile. But I hoped, secretly, I’d scared him, even just a little. I shuddered to think if it had been an elderly person crossing that street instead of me.
What was more interesting than my profanity-laden reaction to potential injury or even death, was that I never spoke about it to anyone. I admit, I immediately called my husband afterwards, but I never told my family.
So after calling my husband, I made my way back to my mom’s antique store. We went outside for a cigarette, where my mom shared a story about the new owners of a local shoe store, two doors down. I smiled at her as she spoke, but all I could think about was how different her life would be, right now, if I hadn’t jumped out of the way of the moving truck. What if I'd been struck down in the street? There's no doubt in my mind, she would've heard the ambulance and found out the hard way that her daughter was being rushed to hospital. Scary stuff.
For the same reason I didn’t reveal Quinton’s dirty little secret to my dad, I decided not to tell my mom about my near-death experience. I didn’t want to ruin her day.
Editor’s Note: Unfortunately, names have been changed to protect the guilty.
November 30, 2015
