Daryl falls like a tree
The sharp spike of a siren of sound grabbed my attention and never let go. Even now as I listen to the music on a borrowed stereo with shared music. Even as I drove here in a borrowed car.
Two long yellow fire trucks make there way down the driveway followed by ambulances and filled with firemen and paramedics. I think of Bill and his bout with his intestinal parasite. I stare at this spontaneous mini parade thru a bathroom window after a gentle quiet soak in warm water. Now, I am out thru the door and walking down the driveway. Quickly, I am joined by firemen, paramedics and Bill. The time is 10 PM. The moon hides behind the curve of the earth and the stars take center stage leaving the landscape shrouded in a deep black veil. We march along the North side of the Pratt House. I follow behind Bill as he leads the way. I hear Skip’s voice and turn to watch as he berates one of the firemen for bringing fire trucks and too many personnel. The fireman vehemently defends his position explaining “This is what happens when you call 911. It is normal procedure.” Skip quickly backtracks and concedes his position in a fairly well spoken, nicely structured couple of sentences, which belies his disheveled appearance. He’s wearing a dirty yellow t-shirt, dirty shorts and his hair is crazy. The madcap paradox of this voyage and Skip’s instant docility seem to placate the fireman and we continue onward. Still oblivious to the cause of this gathering of men, my mind can only come up with this reason: a neighbor has called 911 to report one of Skip’s fires. We go halfway down the canyon cottage trail and then blaze a trail along the side of the barranca. “He dislocated his shoulder” I hear Bill say to someone. A few moments later I see a person lying on their back. It is Daryl. He fell from the top of the cliff 45 ft above. Daryl became disoriented after leaving the brightly lit basement office. He was making his way to his car for a flashlight, smoothie ingredients and the number of his attorney. Daryl was using his cell phone to lite his way but the faint glow proved inadequate as a light source.
Devin heard Daryl falling down the hill and thought it was a mountain biker. He said he could hear him yelling and groaning as he bodysurfed down the side of the cliff.
Skip was working on his kiva “I thought a tree was falling down” he said. But it turned out to be Daryl.
Two long yellow fire trucks make there way down the driveway followed by ambulances and filled with firemen and paramedics. I think of Bill and his bout with his intestinal parasite. I stare at this spontaneous mini parade thru a bathroom window after a gentle quiet soak in warm water. Now, I am out thru the door and walking down the driveway. Quickly, I am joined by firemen, paramedics and Bill. The time is 10 PM. The moon hides behind the curve of the earth and the stars take center stage leaving the landscape shrouded in a deep black veil. We march along the North side of the Pratt House. I follow behind Bill as he leads the way. I hear Skip’s voice and turn to watch as he berates one of the firemen for bringing fire trucks and too many personnel. The fireman vehemently defends his position explaining “This is what happens when you call 911. It is normal procedure.” Skip quickly backtracks and concedes his position in a fairly well spoken, nicely structured couple of sentences, which belies his disheveled appearance. He’s wearing a dirty yellow t-shirt, dirty shorts and his hair is crazy. The madcap paradox of this voyage and Skip’s instant docility seem to placate the fireman and we continue onward. Still oblivious to the cause of this gathering of men, my mind can only come up with this reason: a neighbor has called 911 to report one of Skip’s fires. We go halfway down the canyon cottage trail and then blaze a trail along the side of the barranca. “He dislocated his shoulder” I hear Bill say to someone. A few moments later I see a person lying on their back. It is Daryl. He fell from the top of the cliff 45 ft above. Daryl became disoriented after leaving the brightly lit basement office. He was making his way to his car for a flashlight, smoothie ingredients and the number of his attorney. Daryl was using his cell phone to lite his way but the faint glow proved inadequate as a light source.
Devin heard Daryl falling down the hill and thought it was a mountain biker. He said he could hear him yelling and groaning as he bodysurfed down the side of the cliff.
Skip was working on his kiva “I thought a tree was falling down” he said. But it turned out to be Daryl.
posted by Dij at 2:52 PM
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