[One of four variations on the van scene, the only one without a real name]
Suddenly someone was right next to me, I heard him order, "Down," but he didn't wait for me to respond, instead forcing me onto the ground and under the truck, but we stopped short, side by side on the ice, more than half under the truck but still exposed, and the van was still coming. The word, "Merda," was uttered and I saw his left hand shoot out in front of us for protection while his right pushed me further down on the ice and pulled me closer to him.
It seemed like a futile gesture, but when the van reached his hand instead of crunching bones the result was that enough of the momentum transferred to us that we slid to safety. It wasn't comfortable, I was sure I'd have a bruise where he'd been holding on to me with his right hand and my left side, the side pressed into his, wasn't exactly happy about the whole thing, but we were alive.
He let go of me. There was a moment of silence when I couldn't find my voice and then I asked, "Are you all right?" while sliding out from under the truck.
He seemed surprised, "Am I alright?"
I said, "The van hit your hand," as I stood, holding on to the truck for support.
He said, "No it didn't."
This didn't make any sense. He had to know hit had hit him, even if he had somehow avoided major injury the pain should have been unthinkable. I couldn't understand why he'd deny it and I said, "I saw it."
"Look, " he showed me his right hand, "My hand is fine."
"Your other hand."
He showed it to me, "That one's fine too."
I stared at it in disbelief, there was no indication that it had been hurt at all. "That doesn't make any sense."
"Can we please talk about something else?"
I'd never heard him like that before. His tone was pleading. I knew what I'd seen, and knew that there was something very strange going on, but I decided not to press the matter because he obviously didn't want to talk about it. I changed the subject, "What was that you said when the van was coming at us?"
"I said, 'Down.'"
"After that."
"It was nothing."
"It was something."
"It was Latin," he said as if it were some inappropriate admission.
"Latin?"
"I figure if you're going to be vulgar, why not use the language that has it right in the name?"
It seemed like a futile gesture, but when the van reached his hand instead of crunching bones the result was that enough of the momentum transferred to us that we slid to safety. It wasn't comfortable, I was sure I'd have a bruise where he'd been holding on to me with his right hand and my left side, the side pressed into his, wasn't exactly happy about the whole thing, but we were alive.
He let go of me. There was a moment of silence when I couldn't find my voice and then I asked, "Are you all right?" while sliding out from under the truck.
He seemed surprised, "Am I alright?"
I said, "The van hit your hand," as I stood, holding on to the truck for support.
He said, "No it didn't."
This didn't make any sense. He had to know hit had hit him, even if he had somehow avoided major injury the pain should have been unthinkable. I couldn't understand why he'd deny it and I said, "I saw it."
"Look, " he showed me his right hand, "My hand is fine."
"Your other hand."
He showed it to me, "That one's fine too."
I stared at it in disbelief, there was no indication that it had been hurt at all. "That doesn't make any sense."
"Can we please talk about something else?"
I'd never heard him like that before. His tone was pleading. I knew what I'd seen, and knew that there was something very strange going on, but I decided not to press the matter because he obviously didn't want to talk about it. I changed the subject, "What was that you said when the van was coming at us?"
"I said, 'Down.'"
"After that."
"It was nothing."
"It was something."
"It was Latin," he said as if it were some inappropriate admission.
"Latin?"
"I figure if you're going to be vulgar, why not use the language that has it right in the name?"
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