kaolin fire presents :: writing :: fiction

"ToSwerveAndProtect"

words

Hank was busy doing his best to find humor in the situation. He'd really been hoping for a quiet night. Sure, it was Saturday, but other than that the demographics gave under a three percent chance of him being called for an accident. His computer had told him that, outfitted with all sorts of fancy gimmicks deemed attractive by marketers for his specific market. Hank was a tow-truck driver.

"That's right funny though. Puter ain't said no chance bout no durned crazy hippy bi-cyclists." He swore and spit out a bit of chewing tobacco, and then swore some more when the wind sprayed it back into his face. He didn't normally chew tobacco, but when the call came in and it slowly dawned on him that nobody else was really available, it was the first thing he found that would cover up the smell of bourbon on his breath. His wife had left him the other day, left him with two squalling brats that he sure as hell wasn't going to breastfeed. When the computer had told him it was going to be a slow night, he rolled the odds and opened up the liquor.

The computer ran a simple query server over a database of accident reports as recorded by insurance companies. It correlated them and divided them up into different tow areas. The computer knew nothing of the lemming urge that overcame Bay Area bicyclists, driving them over the Bay Bridge time and time again into the hands and handcuffs of disgruntled police.

Hank didn't know this, though. He actually trusted his computer, the way he trusted in God. They were both magical creatures that knew no wrong and could not tell a lie. No doubt if he were the corporate type, he'd sue the company for not mentioning the estimated probability of what he was now facing. Of course, if he were the corporate type, he wouldn't be facing any of these immediate difficulties.

Other than a little moaning and bitching, the whole of his concentration was on getting to the scene of the crime as fast as he could, weaving through the semi-dense San Francisco traffic. He'd seen enough accidents caused by drunken driving, and he swore on his mother's grave that he'd not be one of them. His mother was alive, but his mind really had its hands full with the road and the wheel.

"Finally!" The cop's blue and reds were twirling merrily on the side of the road, with about fifteen cyclists pulled over and chatting amongst themselves. He clicked on his citizen band handset and called over, "Looks like ya'll've got everything under hand. Should I head back to the garage? Over."

"That's a negative. There's one suspect heading up the bridge. We've got a unit on him, but we need you to help keep traffic back from the scene. Over."

"Ten four." What was he going to say? What the hell was he going to do? The traffic around him slowed a bit as they gawked at the scene going by. He took the opportunity to pull up ahead of the group and turn on his lights. That would keep them back for a little while. In the mean time, he'd try to catch up with the scene, so to speak.

"Hank's towing?" A new voice came over his radio.

"That's me. What's your pleasure?"

"Just keep everyone back. Occupy the center lanes, block anyone that tries to squeak by. We're pacing this miscreant until they give themselves up or hit the contingent at the end of the bridge."

"I swerve and protect." The levity was out of his mouth before he had a chance consider who he was talking to. It was the alcohol talking. He'd have to be more careful.

"Repeat that please?"

"Ah, ten four. Will do." Hank prayed that they wouldn't push him on it. He didn't want any trouble with the cops, not now.

Hank waited. The radio stayed silent. His prayers had been answerd. Maybe the night wouldn't be that bad after all, and he could just get back to the garage and pick up his drinking where he'd left off.

He pulled into position, slowly swaying back and forth cutting off all lanes of traffic. The crowd of cars pulled up closer and closer trying to get a close look at what was happening. A few tried to go around him, and he had to swerve quickly to block them instead of broadside them. After a couple of tries, the drivers got the idea and were content to just follow, although they crept closer and closer.

The cyclist was doing a comfortable twenty miles per hour, which was fairly impressive given that he'd just finished the long uphill stretch to the center of the bridge. The ride was beginning to show its toll, though. The cyclist was beginning to pedal arhythmically.

Suddenly, the cop turned on his targetable high-beams and rotated them over Hank's eyes and back into the crowd of cars. Blinded and confused, he did his best to continue driving straight, and missed what was blasted over the megaphone. He assumed it had something to do with telling the cyclist to cease and desist. Hank didn't quite know what was so bad about allowing bicycles onto the bay bridge, but given the way the drivers were reacting behind him, he figured a cyclist would have to be suicidal to try it.

The cop still had his light shining back into the crowd, and the magaphone rumbled again. "Stay back. Please keep a safe distance behind the tow truck. That means you too, silver beetle."

Hank jumped. He wasn't doing a very good job. He'd actually somehow forgotten about keeping all the cars back. They'd taken those moments to creep right up on his tail. He wondered if the hippies in the silver beetle had anything to do with the cyclists. "Buncha crazy hippies," he muttered to himself. The tow truck maneuvered slightly to caution all the cars back, and the cop turned off the spot light.

"Can't be much longer now," Hank told himself. "Just about to the end of the bridge." Sure enough, a fair ways down and just beyond a slight curve, there was a barricade that the cyclist wouldn't be able to pedal through. He'd have to stop, and when he stopped the cops would handle him. The cyclist had made his point, Hank was sure, whatever that point was.

Apparently the cyclist saw the end too, and decided to give up. He breaked and put his hands in the air, standing unthreateningly with his night-light flashing regularly on the back of his backpack. Two cops jumped out of their car, picked the man up and tossed him onto the ground. One had him pinned and the other was slapping on handcuffs.

"That's a bit excessive. The hippie's harmless. I mean, sure, corrupting society and all, but anybody that lives on vegetables can't be all that healthy. Ain't no threat." Hank's eyes followed the scene. Hank's mind followed the scene. Disinhibited by the alcohol, Hank's arms followed the scene. Hank's truck followed the scene, plowing through both cops and the cyclist, and crashing with great momentum through the concrete barrier on the side of the bridge, carrying him over. Overwhelmed by shock, his mind repeated the last sane thing over and over. "That's a bit excessive. The hippie's harmless."

"That's a bit excessive. The hippie's harmless."