So I’m sitting in my Nissan at the Hertel-Commonwealth intersection, nodding my head to the latest Son Volt album and waiting for the light to turn green, when out of nowhere I hear a roar which blows me forward towards the windshield, shooting a dull pain up my spine, and then pulls me back again. I’m silent and still. People watch from the sidewalk; drivers pass by in the other lane. I’m silent and still, until…
“Fuck, what goddamn luck” seeps through my teeth.
I click off the music, unclasp my seatbelt, and step out of the car. A silver Ford Ranger drones behind me, having just taken off my rear bumper. I motion to the dazed driver to pull over to the side of the street. After we move our cars, he gets out of his and stumbles over to me.
“How’re doing,” he slurs.
He’s wearing a clover pin, celebrating St. Patrick’s Day three days in advance, eyes bloodshot on a Sunday at 4:50 pm. He rocks back and forth, moving to his own rhythm.
“I’m ok, a little sore, though,” I say through the haze.
Turning, I go to my car, trying to remember what comes after a collision—phone calls, information exchanges, police reports—but once inside my car again, I see in the rearview mirror that Mr. Ford Ranger is sitting in the driver’s seat, revving his engine, and turning his steering wheel sharply towards the lane. He’s off again, and in that moment I grasp for whatever I can reach.

In an instant, I also turn my wheel sharply and head him off. He smashes into my car a second time, this round the driver’s side. I crawl out of the passenger’s door and turn towards his truck. I begin kicking and punching it, pounding myself into the steel until it bends. I crawl on the hood and jump up and down, up and down, looking at him through the windshield. Dropping to my knees, I mouth, “We’re not done,” and we wait in the middle of Hertel Avenue, he in the driver seat, while I sit on the top of his hood.

Or I watch as he pulls into the lane, and without thinking, follow him through the green light, down the street. I ease my car closer to his, riding his bumper. He begins to swerve, but I stay near. He turns onto Main Street, and I still follow him as we pass UB Campus, Record Theater, Burger King. He continues north and merges onto I-295. I trail him around and around the city, for 20 miles, 30 miles, 40 miles and watch the time change from 5:30 pm, to 6:00 pm, to 6:30 pm. With glazed over eyes, I don’t notice the gas light come on until my car loses speed. I pull over to the side of the highway, as he toots the horn goodbye—bee bee be-be beep.

Maybe, my just jaw drops, and I grab for a pen and paper, glimpsing his license plate as he pulls away. I dial the cops, asking what I should do when involved in a hit and run.
“Well,” the operator say,” You can either wait there for the officer to show up or drive to the nearest station, which is just a few blocks away on Hertel.”
I turn my car west and drive to the station. Walking into the building, I see a woman in her mid-40s sitting at a desk behind a glass window. I wait and wait some more, leaning on a chair, on the counter, against the wall, as she finishes a phone call, shuffles papers back and forth, eats some chips. Finally, she slowly gets up and saunters over to the counter, switches on a speaker, and asks in an overwrought tone “Can I help you”?
“A guy just hit me; he ran. I got his license plate though,” I tell her breathlessly. I fill out an accident report, showing her my license, insurance, registration.
“That’s all,” she tells me.
“But, but you don’t want his license”? I ask.
Doesn’t he get a ticket,” I whisper puzzled.
She replies with “Honey, that’s just your word against his. We’re done.”