Our Story by Patti Jazanoski

I met him at a bus stop in Alameda on the day the boy was hit by a car. It began as an ordinary morning, with clear October skies and air that was cool, but not as crisp as if I’d stayed in Chicago. I waited for the 7:15, with an older lady, a middle-aged man, and a tall cute guy with a new briefcase. I stood apart and thought about work. I’d moved to San Francisco for a job at Greenpeace and wanted to change the world. 

On the opposite sidewalk, a boy pedaled towards us from a block away. He looked to be eleven or twelve, skinny, dark-skinned, maybe Hispanic, and wore a red backpack, dirty and torn. He cycled closer and down the curb, crossing in the middle of the block. On the side street, a gold sedan pulled up and turned towards us. I assumed the driver saw the boy. I assumed he would stop. But the car drove. The boy rode. The car slammed straight into the bike. The boy flew up. The bike shot forward. For a second, the boy hung in midair. Then he dropped, landing on his hands and knees like a cat. He flattened and lay still, the red pack resting safely on his back. 

Was the boy OK? How could he be? He lay face-down on the dirty asphalt, arms splayed, knees slightly bent. 

Run, I told myself: Help him. My feet refused to move.

Slowly, his right arm lifted, his feet stirred, he pushed himself onto his knees. He stood, pointed down the street where the car had fled, and swore. When he glanced over, his eyes met mine. Then he climbed onto his bike and pedaled away. 

For a long moment nobody spoke. 

The older lady tsk-tsked. “Did you see that?” 

Everyone started. “Anybody catch the license plate?” “I got the first three numbers.”  “It was a gold Charger.” “A Monte Carlo.” “With a Reagan sticker.” Groans.

The guy with the briefcase offered to run somewhere to call. Where was the closest pay phone? Nobody knew. I lived nearby and said we could use mine at home. 

But the bus appeared, coasting to our stop. The older lady and middle-aged man formed a line.  

“Shouldn’t we do something?” I asked the briefcase guy.

He stepped off the curb for a better view. The boy and car were nowhere in sight. “You’re pretty shook-up.” 

“He was a boy.” I’d done nothing. I was still doing nothing now.

On the bus, the guy sat next to me and introduced himself. Mike was kind and almost handsome. Still, I scanned the side streets as we passed. Where was the car? The bus merged onto the freeway into a sea of clogged traffic. The maze of the interchange was more of the same. The gold car could be anywhere. 

Why hadn’t I helped the boy? Would I have run to the aid of a younger child? Would I have tried to save a girl? Would I have helped if he were white? 

I stared out the window, past my reflection, past the vision of who I thought I was, to the bay, bridge, and buildings beyond. These were solid and real. 

When we reached the city, we stopped for coffee. I called my boss and said I’d be late: there’d been a terrible accident.

I stood next to Mike as he phoned the police. Nothing had been reported. 

“Why didn’t his parents call?” I asked. “Or his teacher?” 

“Maybe he didn’t tell anyone. Maybe the kid’s not hurt.”

“What if he rides home, takes a nap, and never wakes up? What if he’s sleeping right now?”

Mike touched my hand. “Nothing appeared to be broken. Besides, the others walked away, too.” He was like a priest who could absolve my sins. 

In that coffee shop that October morning, Mike and I opened up. I was new in town. He’d lived here all his life, but he’d started a new job, too. 

He said he’d seen me at the bus stop the past few weeks. I hadn’t noticed him. Since my move, everything was fresh, so I was overloaded with new. When he pressed, I finally said yes, I remembered him.

Had I seen him in his blue suit?

“Yes.” But I didn’t pay attention to suits. There were plenty back in Chicago. 

“You saw me on the day I interviewed for this job.” It seemed to mean a lot to him.

This became his story. He’d seen me for weeks, and I’d seen him on the day of his interview, but it took this terrible accident for us to speak. We rushed to the boy and helped him onto his bike. We had no time to take down the license plate. The car was there, bam, then gone. Mike repeated the story to his friends. I heard him tell his brother. 

When I brought him to Happy Hour with friends from work, he told it again. I longed for it to be true. I stood beside him and gave my vague assent, “The boy appeared to be fine.”

In time, I grew to believe it, that we came together to run to the boy. The kid was in shock. We helped him out of the street and onto his bike, and he gave a little wave before he pedaled away. We were too busy to watch as the gold sedan, a beat-up Mercedes, sped off. We consoled ourselves and fell in love. This is the story we tell.

Tonight, we told our son’s fiancée.

Now I lay awake, with Mike sleeping beside me, and play it again in my mind. The way the boy’s body was so easily tossed. How he lay face down, crumpled on the dirty asphalt. How I stood on the sidewalk and gawked. 

We all did. Anyone would. It happened so fast.

Mike’s chest rises and falls, the innocent sleep of a child. 

I know he’ll never tell.

Artist’s Statement

Writing is my way to relate to the world, a place to think, discover, create, clarify. I also like to play with sentences and language. This story started because, years ago, I was part of a small group of people who witnessed an event, and yet no one helped (including me, I'm ashamed to admit). Why do people fail to act in an emergency? And I wondered: what happens to the witnesses after-the-fact? Do they try to forget or rationalize it or do the moments haunt them? This is also a story about storytelling. What are the stories that we tell ourselves and why? What happens when we believe a more comfortable version of the "truth?"

Patti Jazanoski’s writing has appeared in Cimarron Review, Ploughshares Blog, Kenyon Review Online, The Rumpus, The San Francisco Chronicle, Consequence, and elsewhere. She’s been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and was awarded the Doug Fortier MCWC Short Fiction Scholarship. A member of the National Book Critics Circle, Patti holds an MFA from Bennington Writing Seminars. She can be reached at pattijazanoski.com.