Wrecked on Table Rock Mountain
by John-Forrest Bamberger
Jed Smith stood in shock by one of the rescue pickup trucks as he watched the tow truck pull what was left of his 1989 Jaguar up onto the switchback that had been the end of it all. He couldn't stand to look at it, yet like passerbys fascinated by mangled bodies, he couldn't help but take furtive glances at it out of the corner of his eye. All four tires were torn outwards, there were huge dents on every side, and the engine with all its torn wires was gurgling out of its container. How could his nearly new Jaguar which he had been so proud of have become like this? Upon seeing the corpse of his vehicle, his precious transportation, Jed wept like Jesus on the cross.
"Why me?" he cried, beseeching the heavens for an answer. The sky was belligerently silent as though mocking him.
The damnable thing about it is he was just about due to make his last payment on it, payments which he was making off his Visa card. This was admittedly a stupid thing to do, but since he had become abruptly unemployed six months ago, he couldn't see anything else to do. To make things worse, he had canceled his full coverage insurance a few months ago in exchange for collision only. Now he would make no money off this incident. Oh, irony of ironies. Meditating on this, Jed wept even more.
One of the rescue men came up and patted him on the shoulder, saying: "There, there, it happens to the best of us, son." He offered him a slug from a flask of brandy, which Jed drank heartily and a pack of cigarettes, which Jed smoked one chained upon another.
"The thing about this is you just never think something like this would happen to you!" pontificated Jed philosophically.
"Yeah, I know, I had a great pickup one time. Just broke my heart to see it all broken up in a ditch one night. I know how it is, son."
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