Land Race

It was a perfect midwestern summer night and I was working my job as a delivery truck driver for the local newspaper. The kinda night that makes you wish the sun would never come up, never bring the heat and humidity. Windows down, Art Bell on the radio, I whisked through my route in near-record time, spurred on by the fact that it was my last night of work before our band, Lunkhead, left on tour on Wednesday. I didn't even have to wait for our roommate/roadie Dave to finish his route because he'd borrowed Ron's car, so I could just drop off my empty company van, walk across the street to where I'd parked the band vand, and bail home.
As I crested the hill on Washington street, the sun glistening off Lake Michigan, I saw that the cops had cordoned off Sheridan road, the street our barn was on. Hm. I cut over and hopped on the Amstutz to come the back way in. As I passed the garage I could see that there'd been an accident right in front of the barn doors. There were cops everywhere and a couple smashed-up cars strewn about. I squinted against the morning brightness, and I wasn't positive, but it sure looked like our band van was a little farther forward in the spot than I remembered parking it. My stomach jumped into my throat as I raced down the side street and into the alley up to the garage, and between the buildings I could see that Ron's car looked askew also.
I squealed to a halt in the parking lot and ran through the building to the front and the commotion. As I raced through the office my boss Tim called out to me but I burst through the doors and onto the street, hoping my eyes had decieved me.
Fuck. They hadn't. And it was worse than I thought. The vans front end was gone and the side of Ron's car was caved in, both cars, along with two others I didn't recognize, were completely demolished. One guy was just sitting in his totalled station wagon, arm on the door, apparently waiting for someone to get his door open so he could get out. The other car was empty and there were cops all over the place, but no Waukegan cops.
My first reaction was anger. We had a fucking rock tour to go on, dammit! Who the fuck did this?!? I jogged up to a group of Zion cops.
"What the fuck is going on?!?" I hollered at them.
One broke away and walked over to intercept me.
"Uhh, sir, please remain calm, there's been a fatality." he said in a hushed tone.
What? A fatality? Who? How?
The cop pointed at the guy waiting to be let out of his station wagon, and he was not waiting for anything, he was dead.
It was crazy, though, no visible blood. He didn't even look like he was in pain. That only made it worse. They huustled me back into Tim's office.
We spent the next few hours filling out forms and getting bits and pieces of the story. The reason that all these were outa town cops was that this high speed chase had started up in Kenosha and screamed down the straightaway of Sheridan Road through Zion, Winthrop Harbor, and Beach Park before t-boning this poor couple on their way to their jobs as nurses at the local hospital. They were only three blocks away.
It also turns out that the guy who did it was alive and well and in custody. He was an escaped mental patient. An honest-to-God escaped mental patient. He'd stolen a car and was delusional. Later in court, he'd say he didn't know the cops were CHASING him, he thought he was in a "Land Race" and if he won the race he'd get some land. I don't know anyone who has ever heard of a land race.
So, with the tour hanging by a thread, Dave and I walked home in a daze to break the news to Ron. Both totalled vehicles were in his name. Ron had lost two cars without even getting out of bed. Ouch.
Ron took the news surprisingly well and we sat and drank coffee and let it all sink in. We'd lost the only two working vehicles in our household. Our band was scheduled to leave on our next tour in mere days. Things looked bleak.
But as usual, we were at our best when the pressure was on. First thing monday morning, we were working the phones, grilling the insurance company and resceduling the first couple shows. Two days and about a hundred phone calls later (Ron was great, he was really pouring it on to everyone at the insurance company, "Do you know what this is doing to our REPUTATION?"), a terrified little woman from the insurance company was dropping off a check at our slanty shanty on 10th street in the heart of the wrong side of the tracks. Within hours we were standing in some rednecks driveway in Antioch while Blackjack checked out an 84 Dodge Ram van and haggling over the price.
Shortly we were cruising down the country roads, smoking a celebratory joint in our captains chairs (no more sitting on the floor around the burn hole in the carpeting for us!). We built a hutch in back, packed it up, kissed our chicks, and soon Wildwood was receding in the rear view mirror.