She had to wait for the next car. A feeling gripped her like the one she had had on getting ready to go into the water when bathing; she crossed herself. The familiar gesture of making the sign of the cross evoked in her mind a whole series of memories from childhood and girlhood, and suddenly the gloom, that hid everything from her broke, and, for a second, life appeared to her with all its bright past joys. But she didn’t take her eyes off the wheels of the second car, which were coming nearer. And just at that moment, when the middle point between the wheels drew level with her, she flung aside the red handbag and drawing her head down between her shoulders she fell underneath the car on her hands, and with a light movement, as though she were preparing to get up again at once, she sank to her knees. And just at this moment she was horror-struck by what she was doing. Where am I? What am I doing? Why? She tried to get up, to throw herself back, but something huge and implacable struck her on the head and dragged her down. “Lord, forgive me for everything!” she murmured, feeling the impossibility of struggling… A little peasant was working at the rails muttering something to himself. And the candle by which she had been reading that book that is filled with anxiety, deceit, sorrow, and evil flared up with a brighter flame than ever before, lighted up everything for her that had previously been in darkness, flickered, dimmed, and went out forever.

— Leo Tolstoy, Anna Karenina.

I remember, years ago, following Bartholomew out of Bar 35 after three dollar pau hana beers and gourmet pizza, on Hotel Street in Downtown Honolulu, the short legs of my 5′9″ frame unable to allow me to dash as quickly across the street as those of his 6′1″ frame allowed him to do. I missed my bus. And heard a sharp, high-pitched whistle that I just knew was directed at me. It was. From one of HPD’s Finest. Because the new jaywalking law had just been laid down. And I had done just that, crossing against the light.

I crossed the street, obediently, and on my light, so that he could talk to me. “I’m only warning you right now, brah, but you’ll get a citation next time, yah?” I refrained from remarking to him that it was a Friday evening on Hotel Street and everyone was already inebriated and besides, I am from New York anyway, and am therefore accustomed to jaywalking with frequency and adroitness. “You know,” he continued, “you get hit by a Bus?! That’s, like, two tons coming at you and you’re, what? 120 pounds?”

I smiled at that remark. Warmed to it. (I was 140 at the time.)

“You’d be smashed, brah!” he scolded me. “So don’t do that again!”

I assured him that I would not, and went on my way.

I never jaywalked after that.

So it was quite a shock to me when I was escorting my little sister across Bethel Street at King Street, making sure to visually confirm that we had a firm white walk light before entering the street, a cab turned the corner and, full speed, nearly (no, did) run us over in the middle of the street.

She chides me to this day for wanting to take blame for the accident, for flagellating myself over not being on the street side while walking with a woman (particularly her), for being so in my own head regarding ghosts and demons that I could not even quickly dial 911 (an amazingly handsome and apparently CPR-trained Good Samaritan did that for us), nor effectively snap a camera phone image of the offending taxi’s plate (I memorized the characters, instead).

But I was, I believe, uncharacteristically “Butch” throughout the incident. Following the impact of this fast-moving steel into our thin bodies, the crushing of her body between the vehicle and my own, me clutching her to attempt to keep her from falling to the pavement, or, worse, under the car itself, I yelled at the driver, “WE HAD THE LIGHT!” collected my little sister’s right shoe that had fallen off, and, with the assistance of the amazingly handsome and apparently CPR-trained Good Samaritan, moved her out of the middle of Bethel Street and onto the sidewalk.

“YOU!” I screamed at the cab driver. “YOU pull over RIGHT NOW and WAIT RIGHT THERE!”

And that is all I was able to do, aside from making my little sister’s fur-lined jacket into a pillow, and stroking her hair until the ambulance arrived.

HPD’s Finest arrived first, and I could have sworn one of them was the same officer who scolded me for jaywalking on Hotel Street. He handed me a piece of paper and said, “Please fill this out.”

I had two thoughts. One: “You actually expect me to WRITE right now?! Can you SEE how badly I am SHAKING?!” Two: “Is this ALL THE SPACE YOU GIVE FOR A POLICE REPORT?! It’s not enough! Can you just check my blog tomorrow?!” But I didn’t utter either of those thoughts. I merely began filling it out while keeping an eye on my little sister, being strapped into a neck brace and a steel board.

As is usual during heated moments like this, one’s cell phone blows up. Former colleagues, Non-Boyfriends across The Pacific, etc. I fielded them all while attempting to complete my version of what had occurred.

“Atherton?!” I heard her query, voice quivering with worry, as the EMTs were lifting her into the ambulance. And I knew what she was asking.

“I’m right here, Baby,” I said. “I’m riding in front.”

Thankfully, she is fine. She even managed to voice blog and photo blog her entire experience in the entire experience. She even managed to remark, upon emerging from her triage room, when she hugged me, “You smell so good!” making me release the stress and worry of the evening in a burst of spontaneous laughter.

I, however, will never forget the meeting of flesh and vehicle; not unlike the experience of Anna, with her train (well, with one rather obvious difference). It is a powerful force: that sense of helplessness one faces when confronted, with no armor, with the onslaught of a speedily-moving vehicle.

Two tons.

Against 140 (or 120…or 110) pounds of flesh and bone.

As she and I and her little sister and friend exited the emergency room, I looked back over my shoulder to the waiting room where I had sat for several hours. And I saw a blond man sitting there, clutching the hand of a raven-haired gentleman, and pleading, “Please stay with me. Please?”

Around two that morning, on the phone with The Painter, I laughed when he summed up the evening. “So. You both looked fabulous at First Friday. Had cocktails at Du Vin with this random ghost from her past. She was photographed with LOST’s Daniel Dae Kim. And then you got hit by a cab.”

“Pretty much,” I agreed, ashing my Marlboro and inhaling deeply.

“Wow,” he replied, sighing, “when you two go out, you really go out!”

I laughed, as an HPD cruiser’s siren four blocks over ominously shattered the stillness of the Downtown streets.

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