One infamous intersection was Douglass Street and Bayfront. This was close to Matthieu’s home so he crossed it frequently when he went out for a run. Cars on Bayfront disregarded the speed limit, especially at rush hour, which meant drivers on Douglass Street were often preoccupied with looking over their left shoulder for oncoming traffic while they waited to marge. They seldomly noticed any pedestrians approaching from the right. One time a teenager in a Civic had spotted a gap in oncoming traffic and floored his accelerator, only to see Matthieu’s neon jogging shorts and pale calves slide across his hood a second later. Matthieu was lucky he got just scrapes and bruises, but he screamed at the kid anyway.
One time a rusted Tacoma knocked Matthieu down at the very same intersection, and just sped off.
Years ago Phil had seen a story in the paper about a Wall Street billionaire who turned to philanthropy in his later years, and became an enthusiastic art collector. The man had been pursuing an extremely valuable Baroque painting at a very public auction, and was strong-arming the bidding war among the ultra-rich. The aging billionaire was also living with advanced macular degeneration, and he was nearly blind. Before the auction closed and it seemed his bid on the priceless artwork would be unchallenged, the billionaire participated in an embarrassing press conference with the seller. He spoke about his dedication to the arts and gesticulated ebulliently. (Videos of this incident will live online forever.) As the billionaire spoke and moved his hands broadly, his thumb and forefinger accidentally jabbed into the superannuated canvas and tore a prominent hole through its center. The auction was paused and the sale was arbitrated. The newspaper reported that the painting’s loss of value due to the damage was 3 million dollars.
“Wow,” Phil had remarked to his wife Vega, lowering the newspaper before him at the breakfast table. “That’s a lot of money.” She nodded affirmatively as she sipped orange juice.
Matthieu was also familiar with the riskier areas near his office downtown. As an on-air fact checker for the station’s premier interviewer, he had to be acutely alert in the workplace and expeditious with his real-time research. So, to clear his head, he often went jogging a couple hours before any scheduled interviews, especially if they were intended to be broadcast on the national syndicate. Drivers who were turning left frequently blocked the intersection on 14th, near his office, and he would bang on their hoods as he ran by, pointing to the red light above their heads. If their window was already down they would usually tell him to fuck off, or give him the finger. One time a motorist threw hot coffee at him.
Home improvement always takes longer than one thinks and Phil had found that the contractors worked more efficiently if he hung around home during the workday. He didn’t mind staying away from the office since his senior consulting position was largely ceremonial anyway, but what bothered him was the noise. And dust.
“Why can’t you just-” he would begin with exasperation, speaking to the laborers, explaining in detail how their methods could be improved. There were paint spots on the floor. Phil would repeat himself, but he was met with stares from the workers, who didn’t speak English. He would throw his hands up and say, “For God’s sake, don’t just work hard; work smart!” This exchange occurred daily, for months.
Eventually he found that his own menacing mien was enough, and he would make a show of pulling back the curtains from his library.
Matthieu marveled at how many drivers would pay absolutely no regard to their surroundings when backing up. Whether pulling out of a driveway or from a parking space, it seemed most people just put their car in reverse and blithely closed their eyes, assuming others would accommodate them. One time a van backed into Matthieu near the pharmacy, knocking him on his ass. The driver immediately stopped her vehicle and ran to his side, apologizing and asking if he was hurt.
“What the fuck!” He exploded at the concerned and flustered woman. Then, before he even got back on his feet, he pointed at the sticker on her license plate. “By the way, your registration is expired.”
His decision to not have children weighed heavier in their later years, when it was too late to change his mind. Phil felt it and he knew Vega did too, even though they never discussed it. They kept a nursery for Vega’s sisters’ children when they visited, and having kids in the house was such a Godsend. But when it wasn’t being used, the room was an unwelcome ghost. It blistered with aborted potential.
Phil ate his daily omelette and read the paper. Vega only made pancakes when her sisters and their rambunctious brood were in the house.
Matthieu didn’t particularly like to jog in the rain, but inclement weather seemed to bring out the worst in the city’s motorists, so he tolerated the spongey feel of his running shoes in exchange for the perverse vindication he felt in the role of martyred biped.
One rainy day, an Audi that failed to stop at the red light in time slid all the way through the intersection, missing Matthieu by only inches. Matthieu threw up his hands in performative disgust, raindrops pouring down his face. When the driver tried to pull over, her car was clipped on the bumper by a sedan coming the opposite way.
“Serves you right,” Matthieu had scoffed, before jogging away and returning to work.
Phil followed national news closely, but grew tired of the war. One particularly liberal-minded newspaper had mustered the gall to even print a color photograph on the front page that showed the charred and broken bodies of women and children. Innocent refugees. He grimaced as he folded the paper back up. Phil understood the publisher’s bold choice, and the ensuing controversy, but for him enough was enough.
“Come on,” he bristled, “No one wants to see that.”
Vega noticed that Phil’s coffee mug was empty and she went to the kitchen to warm up the milk frother.
Matthieu only had time for a 5K; the studio was under-booked and the facilities manager had agreed to let Matthieu use the booth to record another episode of his side project: a local architecture appreciation podcast. He laced up his running shoes and left the house early. It was another snowless winter.
Phil’s accountant had a last-minute cancellation and phoned that morning to see if Phil could come in on short notice. “Absolutely,” Phil chirped in response. His property tax debacle was a persistent headache, and it could not have come at a worse time. The sooner his accountant could untangle this Gordian Knot the better, he thought. He had to get down there right away though; so he left his breakfast unfinished and drove the freshly waxed Range Rover downtown.
Matthieu didn’t bring his heart-rate monitor on such a short run, but he felt his pace lagging as he crested the hill on Bayfront. He would make up for it on the downhill, he told himself. His breathing pattern was rhythmic and measured.
Phil tried to remember what day of the week it was. Tuesday? The light turned yellow, then red.
Matthieu waited at the corner, jogging in place, keeping the blood running. Then the ‘walk’ sign flicked on and he sprinted along the crossing. Phil saw Matthieu too late, and hit the brakes hard. The tires screeched and smoked. The rear of the Range Rover fishtailed slightly and the bumper slid closer and closer to Matthieu’s moving body. Matthieu heard the squealing and stopped mid-stride, suddenly alert, facing the skidding SUV. The men made eye contact through the plexiglass windshield and the Range Rover’s fender tapped Matthieu on the hip, ever so gently. The vehicle finally came to a stop and both men exhaled relievedly.
Phil got out of the car and approached Matthieu with elevated concern. “Oh my gosh! I am so sorry! Are you okay?”
Matthieu was ready to berate this man, to admonish and ridicule his recklessness, his damfool carelessness, but – he allayed his tense nerves for a moment, and took a very deep breath. “I’m okay, yeah, I’m okay. Just a little bump, that’s all.”
“Thank goodness,” Phil exclaimed, “That was a close one!”
“Tell me about it. You had me scared for a second.” Matthieu aped relief.
“You came out of nowhere. I had a yellow light.”
“Right.”
“You’re sure you’re okay? I gotta move my car out of the intersection, but as long as you’re unhurt I don’t think it’s necessary to file a report or anything.”
“I’m sure I’m okay,” Matthieu said evenly. Then he exclaimed with cunning distress, “Oh no! Hold it!”
“What’s wrong?” Phil froze with alarm.
“Don’t move! There’s a big hornet, right there!” He pointed to Phil’s forehead. “Don’t move an inch! Let me help you.” Phil remained motionless as Matthieu slowly raised his hands to Phil’s face. Phil couldn’t sense the bug on his skin, but he despised insects. And hornet stings were excruciating. Phil kept his head still as his eyes darted around, waiting for Matthieu to swat it away. Matthieu’s hands moved inward. “If you’re not going to use ’em,” Matthieu proclaimed with a warped, maligned tone, building with rage, “Then you don’t need ‘em!”
Instantly Matthieu jammed his thumbs into Phil’s eyes and Phil immediately recoiled in pain. Matthieu worked his blunt digits into Phil’s eye sockets and his unwashed thumbnails lacerated each protective sclera, torquing the delicate corneas, and punctured both mucous retinae with his trembling thumbs. Matthieu felt each eyeball pop like two satisfying bursts of warm tapioca and Phil screamed in horror. The hot blood, pus, and viscous collagen slopped down Phil’s cheeks as his hands frantically beat around his face in a desperate and pathetic defense. Matthieu leaned his whole body into the attack, sneering and forcing his thumbs deeper into the ocular cavities. The optic nerve endings in the sockets’ depth were surprisingly rigid, and they poked back numbly on the pads of Matthieu’s bloody thumbs.
Phil collapsed on the asphalt, bawling in pain and covered his mangled face in his hands. Drivers whose patience had expired maneuvered cautiously around the two men, and someone called 911. Phil, blinded and bleeding, squalled on the ground and swore at his now-invisible attacker. He appealed to God and cried in agony. His tear ducts had been cleaved, so he was unable to actually weep.
Matthieu waited patiently on the sidewalk with his hands on his hips and blood on his sneakers. He would give his statement to the police, whose sirens he heard in the distance. He thought about the free studio time he was losing due to this obnoxious delay, but he shrugged with quiescence. What are ya gonna do, he said to himself; as one might surrender to the inconvenience of any ordinary traffic jam.
The altercation resulted in a surprisingly scant amount of paperwork. The motorist who alerted the paramedics had also recorded dashcam footage of the whole incident, and though Matthieu had initially been cited for misdemeanor assault and battery, the complicating factor that he’d been struck by Phil’s vehicle first lead to the charge being summarily dropped. Authorities determined from the third party video that the traffic light had indeed turned red, and Phil was deemed wholly at fault. Phil was hospitalized and received ophthalmic surgery, but insurance covered everything. Matthieu declined to pursue the matter further.
A couple years later Matthieu was put on mandatory administrative leave from the radio station for an unrelated incident after his relationship with an unpaid intern came to light. By the time he boxed up his desk and walked to the parking lot, someone had keyed his Prius with big, wobbly lettering. “Raper” the etched scrawl read.
The internet was a constant nuisance and he legally changed his name again.
Phil officially retired and declared himself too old to learn Braille. He wore wide, opaque sunglasses every day to cover his scars. He learned to hear the soundless undulation of Cyprus trees in his garden. The state’s disability benefits for which he qualified were munificent but, largely unnecessary. Vega became his primary caregiver, so it was devastating when she was diagnosed with stomach cancer. Her 18 months of chemotherapy were heartbreaking. At home Phil could plainly hear that Vega’s voice was pained and tortured. And even though he couldn’t see her face anymore, he knew she was suffering. In the absence of vision he consistently pictured her face contorted with silent weeping. She was always crying, even when she wasn’t. He could taste teardrops in his omelette. And then she was gone.
The ensuing legal paperwork took hours to finalize since a barrister needed to read the entire notarized docket to Phil aloud. Phil patiently sat with the faceless suit at the breakfast table and the lawyer guided his hand to initial and sign at the bottom. Phil and Vega were extremely well-insured. The attorney explained to him that her life insurance policy had matured considerably and the pre-tax payout was (not exactly, but approximately) 3 million dollars.
After he signed the form, Phil leaned back in his chair pensively. His cheeks were warmed by the sunlight coming through the window. “Wow,” he remarked quietly, “That’s a lot of money.”
