When I Travel to Tucson

Then there was this one time I drove to Tucson in college.

It's only a two hour drive, but I had never done it before. In truth, I had never much seen the point in visiting Tucson. I like metropolitan areas - big, anonymous areas with tall buildings and public transit. Tucson, with its Southwestern history and small town appeal, held little interest. But I had friends going to college down there and thought, "What the hell?"

It is a desolate drive from Phoenix to Tucson, a straight shot expanse of Sonoran desert terrain and truckers. A four-lane highway divided by miles and miles of sequoia tree medians.

Just past the halfway point, I could see a wreck up ahead. I didn't stop to put the pieces together until later, but a little Asian-made car had managed to collide with a Mack truck. Well, not the entire truck. It didn't have anything in tow, just the front cab section. There must be a name of that part of a truck, but what the hell do I know?

I would not have given this accident a second thought but that it had only just occurred. Smoke still rose from the little passenger car, and the truck driver had yet to emerge from the median. Even this state of affairs might not have been enough to get my to give pause. After all, I hadn't seen the accident, so I would be of no use to a police report. The first rubbernecker is not witness, at least not in the legally culpable sense.

No, the only reason I took note of this accident and stopped was that the driver of the little Asian-made car had been thrown from the car and lay tossed in the road, half in the ditch. I pulled off the road and approached the driver.

He couldn't have been more than twenty. He lay on his back, looking up at the sky, his eyes blinking deliberately. His left arm was stretched out at his side on the pavement with his right resting gently on his chest. From a distance, he might have been laying on the grass on a bright afternoon by a lake. Instead, his right hand lay motionless inches away from a darkening cloud on his belly.

I am not a doctor or anything, but that boy was in need of immediate medical attention.
Luckily enough for me, the truck driver was on his radio calling for help. I say luckily enough for me because I did not call for help and would still be racking myself with guilt to this day if help had not arrived. Sadly, though, it was not lucky enough for him.

He heard my footsteps approaching and turned his head towards me.

"Mom? Is that you, Mom?"

How do you answer that? I crouched beside him and took his hand. By then, it was damp with blood, but I would have mistaken it for sweat by touch.

"I'm scared, Mom."

He looked right at me, though I know he didn't see me. Or maybe he did and that was the greater kindness - allowing me to participate in this final comfort.

"You're going to be alright, baby," I cooed. "I'm here."

I didn't make it to Tucson that afternoon, either.