Chapter 2
March 12th – 5:17am
The radio blasted as Jimmy tried to stay awake. He had unzipped the windows of his red Jeep Wrangler and was letting the cool air blow through onto his face. He was unusually tired as he headed through town to work and he thought a mixture of Mt. Dew, cold air, and the radio up as loud as he could stand would help.
“You’re too shy, shy! Hush, Hush, eye to eye….” sang the young accountant at the top of his lungs as the one hit wonder played over his radio speakers. It was tax season and Jimmy Lewis had been putting in fifteen hour days, but he didn’t mind. He wasn’t married, lived at home, was making a lot of money and had life by the horns. With the exception of the fatigue that he couldn’t seem to relieve himself of, everything else was perfect.
The song ended and commercials began, so naturally, Jimmy reached for the knob and turned down the radio so that he could barely hear it. His eyes seemed to be growing heavier and heavier by the mile, but just another few and he would arrive at Larkin, Castle, and Associates.
As he approached the green light at the intersection of 1st and Inglewood, his eyelids finally got the better of him and closed around his bloodshot eyeballs. Jimmy opened his eyes as soon as he realized what had happened, but it was too late, he was headed for the median. In an attempt to correct himself, he snatched the wheel to the right, overcorrecting and sending him off the road where he slammed into an embankment and began a barrel roll that rivaled the Hollywood Studio’s stunt show in Orlando, Florida. Although his Jeep flipped three times before resting in a heap on the shoulder of the highway, Jimmy was ejected on the second flip and landed some thirty feet away from the final resting place of his pride and joy. As his body hit the ground, his head struck the shoulder of the highway and knocked him unconscious. Within ten minutes, EMS and officers were on the scene. Strangely enough, however, the Chief of Police was there too, having been called out of his bed by Sergeant Owens.
“Call Chappy, have her meet me at the hospital,” the gruff voice instructed Sergeant Owens. The voice belonged to a man, in his sixties, worn by time and forty years on the job. His face was clean shaven and would have been smooth if not for the frown lines that had made their home on his brow and around his mouth. He remained emotionless as he spoke, “I will be en route soon. I want to be there before she arrives.”
“Yessir. On it,” responded Owens.
Red and blue lights were flashing all around the scene and as police did their best to redirect the morning commuters and EMS personnel tended to Jimmy. Jimmy was only twenty-three years old and it was determined that he wasn’t wearing his seatbelt. In fact, he was barely breathing when first responders arrived.
Sergeant Owens returned to the Chief as he continued to stare expressionless at the crumpled Wrangler.
“All set. Chappy is on her way to the hospital, Chief.”
The chief didn’t look up, but responded, “10-4.”
Both men stood in silence for a few moments before Sergeant Owens spoke again.
“Chief,” he spoke softly, as the ambulance pulled away from the scene, sirens blaring over their conversation, “Chappy is always there for us, but who’s gonna be there for Chappy?”
The Chief looked up, also speaking softly and completely out of character for him, “We will, Owens. Get this mess cleaned up and then get everyone to the hospital. Her son is all Chappy has left.”
March 12th – 5:17am
The radio blasted as Jimmy tried to stay awake. He had unzipped the windows of his red Jeep Wrangler and was letting the cool air blow through onto his face. He was unusually tired as he headed through town to work and he thought a mixture of Mt. Dew, cold air, and the radio up as loud as he could stand would help.
“You’re too shy, shy! Hush, Hush, eye to eye….” sang the young accountant at the top of his lungs as the one hit wonder played over his radio speakers. It was tax season and Jimmy Lewis had been putting in fifteen hour days, but he didn’t mind. He wasn’t married, lived at home, was making a lot of money and had life by the horns. With the exception of the fatigue that he couldn’t seem to relieve himself of, everything else was perfect.
The song ended and commercials began, so naturally, Jimmy reached for the knob and turned down the radio so that he could barely hear it. His eyes seemed to be growing heavier and heavier by the mile, but just another few and he would arrive at Larkin, Castle, and Associates.
As he approached the green light at the intersection of 1st and Inglewood, his eyelids finally got the better of him and closed around his bloodshot eyeballs. Jimmy opened his eyes as soon as he realized what had happened, but it was too late, he was headed for the median. In an attempt to correct himself, he snatched the wheel to the right, overcorrecting and sending him off the road where he slammed into an embankment and began a barrel roll that rivaled the Hollywood Studio’s stunt show in Orlando, Florida. Although his Jeep flipped three times before resting in a heap on the shoulder of the highway, Jimmy was ejected on the second flip and landed some thirty feet away from the final resting place of his pride and joy. As his body hit the ground, his head struck the shoulder of the highway and knocked him unconscious. Within ten minutes, EMS and officers were on the scene. Strangely enough, however, the Chief of Police was there too, having been called out of his bed by Sergeant Owens.
“Call Chappy, have her meet me at the hospital,” the gruff voice instructed Sergeant Owens. The voice belonged to a man, in his sixties, worn by time and forty years on the job. His face was clean shaven and would have been smooth if not for the frown lines that had made their home on his brow and around his mouth. He remained emotionless as he spoke, “I will be en route soon. I want to be there before she arrives.”
“Yessir. On it,” responded Owens.
Red and blue lights were flashing all around the scene and as police did their best to redirect the morning commuters and EMS personnel tended to Jimmy. Jimmy was only twenty-three years old and it was determined that he wasn’t wearing his seatbelt. In fact, he was barely breathing when first responders arrived.
Sergeant Owens returned to the Chief as he continued to stare expressionless at the crumpled Wrangler.
“All set. Chappy is on her way to the hospital, Chief.”
The chief didn’t look up, but responded, “10-4.”
Both men stood in silence for a few moments before Sergeant Owens spoke again.
“Chief,” he spoke softly, as the ambulance pulled away from the scene, sirens blaring over their conversation, “Chappy is always there for us, but who’s gonna be there for Chappy?”
The Chief looked up, also speaking softly and completely out of character for him, “We will, Owens. Get this mess cleaned up and then get everyone to the hospital. Her son is all Chappy has left.”
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