“It’s a windshield, not a television.”
The words left my mouth half-facitiously this morning in describing the wreck that happened in practically my front door on Tuesday evening, where a motorcyclist was slammed into by a pickup truck driver.
As the picture from the Buffalo News shows, the motorcyclist took the brunt.
I didn’t see it, but heard it and immediately knew what it was. I wandered out to selfishly make sure nobody I knew was involved. The truck driver apparently fled.
It’s the little things that can make you scared. Both my daughters are carefully learning to drive and are pretty good. Their mom says she can’t take them anymore, not that the kids are bad, it’s all the things you see on the road now that merits fear. You can teach learning the pace of the road, parallel parking and the like. It’s difficult to educate about the guy coming into traffic because he couldn’t wait for the dude in front him to finish parallel parking, or the goof who is indifferent to the stop signs coming off the 198, or the large amount of folks who come into Gates Circle and believe Yield is loosely translated as “go right a-fucking-head.”
Somebody else watching the aftermath made the remark about “If she has Corsanti’s lawyers.”
I don’t know about that and don’t care to, just getting scary how little regard we seem to have for one another.