On a lonely stretch of road in LaSalle, Quebec less than a mile away from home, one part of my life ended and another began. Afterwards I saw things with a clarity only near-disaster affords. That although I desperately needed love in my life, I’d never really put myself out there and had little in the way of friends and nothing in the way of a partner. That if I was serious about finding happiness, I’d have to sever ties with a place where no one ever says hello to each other and the same five shops service the same people until they’re replaced by younger doppelgangers. Years later, riding a Greyhound to New York City with nothing but a duffel bag and vague promises of representation by a literary agent, I kept repeating the mantra that serves to quell the uneasiness of beginning something new to this day: “I could have died.”

I was performing with a Shakespeare-in-the-Park troupe in a neighboring suburb. It was a do-it-yourself operation in every sense of the word, with the entire company spending two hours setting up the stage, lighting and sound equipment, followed by the performance, and finally another hour or two dismantling the set and loading it into trucks. It was exhausting work, done six days a week, but you’re young and believe you can somehow do it, party afterwards, and show up the next morning ready to go without any lingering effects. Handing off the last of the equipment, I gladly accepted a beer from one of the stage technicians. Succumbing to the darkness and the warm breeze shaking leaves on the trees, I spent hours sitting cross-legged on the grass listening to older actors talk about their lives: the part they’d almost landed, neurotic girlfriends, a great apartment opening up in Toronto. I listened without really absorbing any of it: I was 19. The clock hadn’t officially begun ticking yet.

I left the park around 1:30 a.m. Got into my car, a grey Mazda hatchback with a wheezing engine, and started for home. The moon was full and fat overhead.

It took a few minutes of driving before I realized my vision was pulsing at the edges. I cracked open the window and took a few swallows of air. I turned on the radio. Onto the interstate, mostly empty at that time of night, forcing my eyes to stay open. I took the LaSalle exit and by then it was too late to pull over. I’d be home soon.

The last thing I remember was glancing in the rearview mirror and seeing an SUV’s headlights a few hundred yards away. Then my eyes closed.

I woke to a shrieking noise and actually saw a traffic light pole rip through the left side of the car, inches from where I was sitting. Then the car flipped over, I was screaming, and all conscious thought stopped.

The car landed on its roof and slid down the road, sparks flying out on either side. The windshield shattered. I was hanging upside down, suspended by the seat belt.

As the car began to slow, I could make out duplexes with dark windows beyond the sidewalk, model cars arranged on the lot of a dealership. When it stopped, I unbuckled myself and fell onto the roof. I crawled out of the space where the windshield used to be, trying to avoid cutting myself on bits of broken glass. As soon as I was out, I stumbled away about ten feet and looked back.

The car looked like a giant insect on its back, wheels spinning mindlessly to right itself. The rusted underpinnings were exposed. Oil was spreading out in a pool on either side. A wave of lightheadedness overtook me when I realized I could still hear the radio playing from inside the crumpled cabin.

The SUV I’d seen in the rearview mirror had come to a stop about twenty feet away. A Chinese couple was staring at the wreckage with mouths agape. I watched as the woman ran to a nearby house to call 911. The man spotted me and began to speak rapidly.

“Anyone else?” he asked.

I couldn’t understand. My ears were ringing.

He gestured towards the car.

I shook my head. The man seemed relieved.

I sat down on the sidewalk. The man sat down next to me. The traffic light pole I’d crashed into was bent but unbroken. A sign on the lower part of the pole was completely wrapped around itself.

“You’re okay?” the man asked, in a tone that said he couldn’t quite believe it.

There were bits of glass embedded in my fingers, which I picked out. Blood trickled out of a dozen small wounds. I touched my left shoulder and winced. To this day I carry two scars, each about three inches long, where the seat belt dug in. But aside from that, I was untouched.

“Yes,” I answered, voice sounding strange to my ears. The wail of an ambulance started in the distance. “I’m okay.”

Featured Image: Thaddeus Stewart