Free A List of Things That Didn't Kill Me by Jason Schmidt Page B

barely see it. Dave tilted his head and watched in his rearview mirror.
    â€œWow,” he said.
    Slowly but surely, the traffic started to move again.
    â€œWas that it?” Dad asked. “How many miles could that thing have bounced down the freeway without going off?”
    â€œI don’t know,” Dave said.
    Ten minutes later we saw a delivery van on the left shoulder of the freeway with a police car parked behind it.
    â€œMark,” Dave said.
    â€œHey, Jason,” Dad said, pointing at an imaginary object on the right side of the van. “What’s that?”
    â€œWhat’s what?” I asked, looking where he was pointing, expecting to see another tire. But he wasn’t looking where he was pointing, and neither was Dave. They were looking at the van. When I tried to look where they were looking, we’d already passed it.
    â€œWhat was that?” I asked.
    â€œThat van got hit by the tire,” Dad said. “The cab was crushed and the driver was killed.”
    â€œHow could you tell?” I asked.
    â€œIt was obvious,” Dad said.
    â€œWow,” I said. “He was just driving along and—splat.”
    â€œYeah,” Dad said. “Sometimes that’s how it happens.”
    Dave gave Dad a look, like Dad had said something wrong, but I wasn’t sure why.
    *   *   *
    When we finally got to the hospital and went up to Grandpa’s room, I couldn’t understand what the big deal had been. Grandpa looked fine, I thought. There was a machine next to his bed: a white metal box on a wheeled stand, with four or five unmarked switches and a few red lights. A clear plastic tube ran out of it and up under Grandpa’s hospital gown. I had no idea what it did. I couldn’t even tell if it was on. Lying in his large, comfortable-looking bed, watching baseball on the cable TV on the wall, Grandpa looked like he always had: big, strong, and totally humorless. He was wearing his usual large-framed yellow-tinted sunglasses. His ridiculous pompadour toupee was on straight, his face was fresh-shaved. His dark skin was a little yellow, but otherwise he seemed healthy and lucid.
    â€œHi, Dad,” my dad said when we came in.
    Grandpa looked at Dad, but his expression didn’t change much.
    â€œMark,” he said.
    Dad sort of looked like he wanted to hug Grandpa, but Grandpa didn’t move or respond to Dad’s movements, so Dad just stood next to the bed, holding on to the metal railing. Grandpa’s eyes drifted down to me.
    â€œHow’s it going, pardner?” he growled. He was always calling me stuff like that. He always said it in that raspy growl, like he was making an effort to sound extra-tough when he was talking to me.
    â€œOkay,” I said.
    â€œAll right,” Grandpa said, and went back to looking at the TV.
    Dave was standing in the doorway behind us. I looked at him, but he was watching Dad and Grandpa.
    â€œI’m glad you could make it,” Grandpa said. His eyes flicked away from the TV, then back.
    â€œOf course,” Dad said. He sounded surprised.
    Dad and I stood there for a while. Eventually I noticed a chair up against one wall and sat down. Dad stared at Grandpa. Grandpa looked at the TV.
    â€œAll right,” Dad said after about twenty minutes. “We’ll head out. We’re staying at Aunt Gin’s. I’ll be back.”
    â€œOkay,” Grandpa said. He held up his left hand. Dad squeezed it once, then headed for the door. I got up and followed him.
    Dave’s van was in a multistory parking structure next to the hospital. This had been another revelation to me—I’d never seen a whole apartment building just for cars. In Eugene, people parked on the street, in single-car garages, or in parking lots. Between the freeway, the traffic jam, the killer tire, and the parking garage, I was getting a picture of L.A. as a place where cars had made a world for