Trajectories.

“Yo! Get out on my side, please!”

We had pulled up on the side of the road, and Maggie was dropping us off at the beach place in Montauk. I asked the kids to exit the van on my side, so that they’d step onto the grass, not into the middle of the road.

As I got out of the van, I saw my daughter already across the street.

I asked: “Did you look both ways?”
She answered: “Yes.”

Then my youngest started running around the back of the van.

A red car was coming down the road, approaching our vehicle. My youngest was rounding the corner of the van and heading for the road, not looking for oncoming traffic. Not seeing that there was oncoming traffic.

Slow motion.

Trajectories overlayed my vision in neon, just like they used to when I was a younger. My youngest was going to get hit. He ran out of my field of vision, and I started sprinting around the van. “STOP!” I yelled. He kept going. “STOP!” I yelled again. He didn’t.

I rounded the back of the van at speed, figuring to run into the middle of the road and knock his ass off the street.

No need. Apparently, I screamed loud enough that the oncoming car heard me. They were stopped, about ten feet from my son, who was still in the road. I grabbed him, and said “Jesus. Do you see the car? Do you see what could have happened? You HAVE to look before crossing the street. Always.”

He started crying.

Love to all. Even you, the dude with the hearing aid who screamed “HUMILITY!”