One weekend morning, I heard a call come in over the scanner for a motor vehicle accident at Route 26 and Carl Street, and begged my father to take me down to it. In those days, the fire department was not automatically dispatched on automobile accidents. Initially reluctant, he relented, and we drove over, much too slowly for me. Upon arrival, I saw a car with the front end smashed and wrapped around a telephone pole. Walking over, I saw a burlap bag over the driver’s window. A man, a passerby it seemed, stood by the side of the car retching. As I approached the car, he said, “You don’t want to look.”
I know that, but I have to. It’s my job now.