Seattle couldn't have asked for a lovelier Fourth of July than the one we experienced last week. I recently began a new job and so enjoyed taking a morning without a schedule to follow. A friend joined me for breakfast, and we relaxed in the backyard while viewing pictures of my recent trip to France and Spain.
Later in the day I rode my bike to Lake Washington for a mid-afternoon dip. Then I met friends for a potluck picnic in one of the new buildings springing up in the South Lake Union neighborhood. We headed to the rooftop deck to watch the simultaneous fireworks at Myrtle Edwards Park and Lake Union.
I returned home to Capitol Hill that balmy evening and while walking my dog Meggie I heard a loud thump and crunching noise on the street behind us. We immediately turned around and headed one block south to 16th Avenue and East Olive Street, where I live. A man emerged from underneath his motorcycle after a wipeout rounding the corner of a traffic circle. His motorcycle windshield lay shattered in multiple pieces alongside his bike.
I rushed over and asked "Are you all right?"
Outfitted in a thick black leather jacket with a bold strip of yellow and clearly shaken, he replied "Yeah, but I've got about $2,000 worth of damage on my bike." He looked in his mid to early 30s and mentioned he'd been drinking. Upon further inspection I noticed he'd crushed the left taillight of a parked car where the bike had crashed.
I stood there on the moonlit street corner watching him collect shards of his windshield and pick up his damaged bike. Around the same time, lights came on from the patio of a neighboring town home. A woman disapprovingly called out into the open air, "You ARE going to leave a note, aren't you?" While he wheeled the motorcycle toward me and parked it on the street, the same woman impatiently remarked, "Get his license plate number."
I couldn't help but feel sorry for the fellow who got in the accident. I'd shown up to make sure nobody was hurt. But now I found myself in a predicament. I wanted this guy to do the right thing, take responsibility and leave a note on the car. But I didn't want to tell him to do it, like the random voice in the night. I'd expected his conscience would guide him. I didn't want to rush to judgment, assume he wouldn't and interfere with that process. While he cleaned up some shattered pieces I observed quietly nearby, at which time one of my neighbors emerged from our building.
He approached the motorcyclist and began chatting with him about what happened. While walking Meggie to the side door of my building I began debating in my head my role. I don't hesitate calling 911 and alerting police whenever I sense a security threat in my neighborhood. In the past these calls have involved suspected drug dealing or a threatening presence in the vicinity. I stood waiting, hoping for resolution while my own conscience kept eating at me. Perhaps the woman across the street, the voice in the night, made a call to the police. Why did I hesitate?
Soon my neighbor returned to the side entrance where I stood. He told me about how he, too, had heard the loud noise, stuck his head out the fourth floor window and came down to investigate the scene of the accident. We talked about how hit-and-runs raise the cost of everyone's car insurance. When a police car pulled along the side of the building.we both walked out to discover the motorcyclist had disappeared.
He'd left his bike parked across the street so police were able to get the license plate number. My neighbor answered questions about his conversation with the man. I stood at a distance, watching and thinking.
At one point one of the cops approached me and asked, "Is that your bike?" I replied no, finding it ironic he'd even inquire.
Earlier that evening I'd enjoyed the revelry of friends at the Fourth of July dinner and imbibed wine and champagne prior to the fireworks display. I'd rode home on my bicycle, confident in my ability to negotiate the roadway and return safely. But accidents can happen. Perhaps the missing motorcyclist reminded me how each and every one of us walks a fine line when we drink and get behind the wheel of any vehicle. And the damage, small or large, we can leave behind.
Jack Hilovsky's column appears in the second issue of each month. He can be reached at editor@ capitolhilltimes.com.
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