As we left the exhibition last night and began walking up the ramp towards Senate St. we slowed our pace to distance ourselves from the rather loud and obnoxious tie dyed fool just ahead of us. Knowing full well that someone wearing a Grateful Dead shirt is most likely not used to making good lifestyle choices and could go off on a Cherry Garcia rage at any moment. We brought our pace to a full “Let’s just stand here and watch the sunset.
Passing our local and somewhat private community park. We noticed the same man flicking his cigarette as he rolled around in the grass. While I was initially angered by his antics. I was quickly reminded of the wonderful thing we call Karma when we recalled an earlier notice that the entire park was sprayed with enough pesticide to kill a small child, dog or hippie. I couldn’t help but rejoice in devilish laughter. “That’s Karma your rollin’ in.” Just wait, it’ll happen.
We had just left a somewhat underwhelming open house for a condo in Park Slope. The growls in our stomachs echoed from the emptiness caused by the morning rush. So with our taste buds crying out for some deep fried comfort food, we began to head towards an old favorite in ” The Chip Shop”. We had just walked a few blocks when suddenly, we heard a crash that was quickly followed by grinding sound. The sound totally caught me off guard. It all happened within a few seconds. Seconds where I could feel my heart stop, pick up and begin racing. Though we had actually witnessed what had just happened. The visual impact and the sound it made felt like two completely separate incidents. The sounds we had just heard was that of a Yogurt truck (I shit you not) hitting a bicyclist, rolling over the bike like a Sherman tank and baking up off it. Looking back, it seemed like one of those freeze frame moments you see in the movies or TV. Yet it all took place in a matter of three or four seconds.
Quickly, I reached for the camera in my bag and managed to get about a half dozen pictures of the truck, it’s license and the driver as he momentarily stopped to peek out from the truck before speeding away. A crowd poured out of the corner restaurant where, just seconds before, they were enjoying their Sunday brunch. The group of onlookers quickly began tending to the just hit bicyclist, speed dialing 911 or just looking on in complete shock. The bicyclist, bruised, slightly bloodied and shaken was soon back on his feet while his former mode of transportation looked more like a sculpture headed to a local art gallery than anything else.
Within a few minutes the police, fire department and local ambulance service arrived, took care of the victim and began taking reports from the still shocked, onlookers. “He just got back in his truck and sped off!!!” “He went that way. He can’t be more than two blocks away,” It was a truck.” “An ice cream truck” “No, it was a pink yogurt truck.” “That shit was pink and it sped away.” Quickly I went to one of the officers and showed him the pictures. At the time I couldn’t zero in close enough to show them the license number but it gave them a good enough look at the truck. Good enough that even the most color blind albino could pick it out of a line up. Still, I made sure to give the officer and the bicyclist my business card and let them know I’d be happy to help with the license plate number once I got home.
As we got home and settled in. I began to check my email. The following is what I received…. “Hi Mr Damion, Today I got hit by a frozen yogurt truck (which I believe to be YOGO). If you can, please help me out, I need more information to catch this guy. My contact number is XXX 888-8888 and you can email me at this address at any time.” Sincerely, Johnny Bicycle” I sent him these images, along with a close up of the trucks license plate. In the end he was very appreciative. It felt good to be able to help out and maybe, just maybe, help bring a happy ending to a very unpleasant experience.