By Kathleen Latham
They found Moby’s body in the middle of Dover Road. He was lying on his back, one muddy boot tucked beneath his truck, his left arm resting on the yellow lane divider. Eyes open, mouth askew, as if wondering how the hell he got there. There was some talk later that he had to have known something was wrong. Dover Road isn’t the kind of street you stop in the middle of, not with all its blind curves and treacherous pines standing where there should be sidewalk. I didn’t know Moby well, but personally, I think he felt death coming. I think he sensed whatever horrible thing was about to go wrong in that heart of his, and he lept from his truck with the idea that he could outrun it.
Jim Donohue was the first on the scene—big, beefy Jim with his red face and his red hair, the kind of guy you see a million times hanging out at the rink or pumping gas, and you think he’s nice enough but probably not a rocket scientist.
Jim and Moby worked together at the Department of Public Works. They were heading for the same clogged storm drain on Pond Street, but Jim had gotten a later start. He’d hung back a bit at the Carby Street office, drinking coffee and talking to the younger boys about the Bruins’ latest collapse. Maybe because Moby knew how long Jim could talk once the subject got around to hockey, he grabbed a truck and headed out alone. It was a good ten minutes before Jim followed—ten minutes, though no one could really say for sure because Moby was that kind of guy, the kind that slips away when nobody’s looking. And Jim was the kind that just keeps talking.
I imagine the first thing Jim saw when he took the corner from Carby to Dover was that ugly, hunter green DPW truck idling in the middle of the road, its tailpipe streaming exhaust like an abandoned cigarette. I imagine him tapping his brakes and frowning, his brain trying to puzzle out what he was seeing—the stopped truck, the open door. Maybe he even said something like, What the— before his eyes dropped and he spotted the brown-shirted heap, flat-backed on the pavement.
By the time help arrived, Jim had been doing CPR for a while. I can picture him kneeling in the road, those powerful hands of his pumping Moby’s already-lifeless chest, his desperation and guilt about lingering over his morning coffee fueling his arms, driving them like pistons while he begged Moby to breathe.
He refused to give up. That’s what they say. He refused to stop pumping, even after the town paramedics got there and tried to take over. Max Smith had to pull him off and order him to stand by the police cruiser so the paramedics could do their job. He says Jim just stood there, the knees of his work pants dusted white with salt and sand, his barrel chest heaving while the paramedics barked out orders and went at Moby like they could prod him back to life with needles and tubes.
For most people in town, the story ends there. Moby collapsed. Jim couldn’t save him. The end.
But the thing I think about, the thing no one talks about, is what happened after they took Moby away, after the police and firemen climbed back into their rigs—ashen, shaken—after all the other drivers who had stopped to watch resumed the journeys they had been on before Moby’s death got in the way, what did Jim do then?
Did he stand defeated, arms at his sides? Did he get back in his truck and take his fury out on the steering wheel? Or was it the way I picture it. Big Jim, alone in the middle of the road, staring at those hands of his, shocked at the weight of their betrayal.
We all know Jim did the best he could. Chances are Moby would have died even if Jim had been trailing right behind him. But still. You can see the way it weighs on him. The way it weighs on the town. Maybe that’s why when we see him at the rink now or the Mobil station he looks away, as if we’ve caught him doing something wrong. As if the shame of it is just too much.
Or maybe not.
Maybe Jim sleeps like a baby. Maybe he still takes his time with his coffee and talks about hockey and whenever someone says Moby’s number must have been up, he nods along as if that’s the only conclusion a right-minded person could come to. Never mind that people survive heart attacks all the time if someone starts CPR right away. I don’t know.
The story’s got nothing to do with me. I understand that. But that doesn’t keep me from wondering. From stealing glances at Jim’s hands—those big, strong hands that can tie skates and lift manholes and fix just about anything. I wonder if he thinks of that day every time he does one of these simple actions. I wonder if he looks at those hands and thinks, I thought I knew you.
I know I would. I’d like to think so, anyway. I’d like to think being that close to death does something to a man, that it leaves some kind of invisible weight that makes your hands shake when you drink your morning coffee. Because isn’t that the way it should be?
Shouldn’t we want our pivotal failures to cost us something, some price that sets us apart from the front lawn voyeurs and rush hour rubberneckers snaking past an event that has already lost its meaning?
I hope I see his hands shake one of these days. I hope I see a lace snap or a set of keys fumble.
Just to prove something. Just to know it matters.
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A well-written piece that leaves me with lots of questions. ‘Pivotal failures’ – wow! Weighty – and loaded – phrase. Still thinking…
Thanks, Gina. One of the fun things about flash fiction is letting some of those questions linger. I appreciate the comment!
What a well written and thought-provoking piece! I was drawn in and hung on each word. The end was a tad biting and uncomfortable, which left a bit of a mark. Awesome!
Wow. Loved this story of simple people living their lives. Stuff happening that no one can control. Or maybe they can or think they can or hope they can – and that’s where the story is. You nailed it.
I grew up in that kind of town, with that kind of people. You really took me back. I felt like I was there.
Looking forward to your future work.
Thank you so much for your kind comments. Writing is so solitary, so it’s amazing to get this kind of supportive feedback.
This story is loosely based on an event that took place in the town I live in, so I’m glad it rang true to you.
Happy New Year!
Totally agree with what Scott said. It’s like you know these people.
Rubbernecking is the kind of story you’d read in the local paper written as an editorial. It had slick details that grounded the reader in the story. Well written and engaging. Like Gina said, it leaves a lot of questions unanswered that makes it linger in your mind. Keep up the good work.
Thank you!
Fantastic job! Sharing on Twitter.
Seriously made my day with this 🙂
I don’t know what to make of this story told by someone who doesn’t actually know the facts. This piece is like hearing only one side of a phone conversation. Or reading the intro to a novel where the narrator is going to discover the truth later. And to top it off, the storyteller wants to see Jim break down, see his hands shake, etc. Yet, for all the narrator knows, he has already wept copious tears. I would like to know a little more, Kathleen Latham.
Thank you for your comment. I’m actually glad you have all these questions, because that’s what I was going for. I chose the title “Rubbernecking” because I was suggesting that the narrator’s reaction to what happened to Jim is similar to the reaction we all have when we pass an accident that has nothing to do with us: that morbid curiosity, the desire to stare, but also that weird reflex to project ourselves into what happened in a sometimes judgmental way. All of that occurs so quickly, and then we pass by without our questions ever really being answered. I was trying to reflect all that both in what the narrator says and in how the reader experiences it. Hope that helps it make a little more sense!
After I submitted my comment, it occurred to me that I should have reflected on the title. You definitely projected a rubbernecker’s thoughts. Well done, Kathleen Latham.
As a writer, you took me to school with this one, to Show and Tell, and your story has the perfect balance of both. The show is vivid, and the tell is quite thought-provoking. Nicely done.
Thank you so much!
Such a strong piece–I have chills. The carefully crafted imagery is haunting and authentic. The rush of the story’s flow is tempered with thoughtful questions that creates a complex pace and plot within the confines of a short story: truly a master feat.
But, the mark of any truly excellent piece of writing is how changed a reader is by reading it; how often they go back in their minds to revisit it or chew on a line. This story is, handily, one of them:
“I’d like to think being that close to death does something to a man, that it leaves some kind of invisible weight that makes your hands shake when you drink your morning coffee…I hope I see a lace snap or a set of keys fumble.”
Speechless!
That’s one of the nicest compliments I’ve ever received as a writer! Thank you so much for taking the time to comment.
Wonderful; would love to see more of the author’s work.
One of my New Year’s resolutions is to get a web site up and running 🙂
That sounds great! I can’t wait to see it and to see more of your work. This piece is truly a masterpiece. Haunting, well-written, and expertly expressed. I’m rereading the story again today because I can’t stop thinking about it! The level of detail painted in the text, the diction infused with Northeast small town sentiment…truly love it.
Thought you might like to know that all the encouragement here inspired me….My website is now up and running! You can find me at kathleenlatham.com
Grabbed me immediately. Loved it. Wished for more! I feel like somehow I know these people. Thank you for a thought provoking piece.
While taking a break from office work, I read this piece instead of looking at the on-line news of the hour. As I read, I cried at my desk surrounded by papers and to-do lists. Thank you for touching me so deeply. It gave me such pause and reminded me of how much words written well still matter. Thank you for touching those of us who have and/or have not had a “Jim” experience. Please write more.
Thank you so much!
Powerful, poignant, moving.
I think that was a nice piece, Kathleen. Look forward to seeing your website once its up and running.
Thank you so much! The website is finally here! You can find me at kathleenlatham.com
This was an excellent piece of fiction. Like an earlier commenter said, you did a wonderful job of incorporating so much depth in so few words. The last few sentences culminated in a perfect ending for the reader, in my opinion, leaving one with that inkling of curiosity you were intending to instill. Thank you for writing this piece and I look forward to more.
Thanks for the kind words
Fantastic. I could visualize it all. The ending left me wanting more!
A great story. Rubbernecking, voyeurism and the on-line trolling equivalents today require little emotional investment. But owning a moment or event, whether as participant or witness, is so much more emotionally difficult, but also more satisfying. Your story describes the former and invokes the latter. Well done.
Thanks, Ron!
Incredible work.