Number of miles to the San Joaquin bridge: 10. I push on the gas. The needle
glides from 50 to 60. Dominique’s head stays down.
Number of miles to the bridge: 8. In the distance, above Stockton, there is a
rent in the cloud. As we approach, it seems to widen; then the sun breaks
through. The road is a strip that shines and beckons. We reach 65.
Number of miles to the bridge: 6. “Driver,” says a young guy in front, and
there is concern in his voice. “Yeah?” I say, and then he swallows, says,
“Aren’t we going too fast?” “It’s fine,” I say and he sits back. We reach 70.
Now the passengers are anxious; they lean and confer. Some of them must be
decent people who mow their lawns, pay their taxes, recycle plastic and glass.
Unfortunately, this makes no difference. It is not a question of worth.
Number of miles to the bridge: 4. The sky is clear, the sun is bright. The view,
in those final seconds, will be incredible.
Number of men who have stood up: 3. They stagger down the aisle. “Fuck are
you doing?” says one. “Slow the fuck down,” says another. They are blocking
the rear view mirror. I yell at them to move. “Call 9- 1 - 1,” a woman says, and
suddenly I’m scared. Not for myself, but Dominique. Is this just to punish her?
Is there no other way?
They rattle the door. They hit the glass. The bridge is now in sight. I turn the
wheel hard to the left and 2 of the men fall.
Number of people talking on phones: 8. The girl is on her boyfriend’s lap.
Screams and shaking heads and tears and hands entwined in prayer.
Dominique is the only one who doesn’t look afraid. Her arms are tight round
the bearded man’s neck. Although their faces are close, they are not kissing,
just staring into each other’s eyes. His chin trembles, he speaks, she smiles.
They are like the lover’s shadows found on a Japanese wall. So united,
so together, they left an indelible mark.