Hit and run

It was a hill that was kicking Doug's butt. He'd geared his bike down into low, but beads of sweat still formed on his brow and careened off his face. The thin mile-high air of Denver didn't help matters. Doug's lungs were on fire as he finally saw the blacktop fall away to reveal the next valley and the city skyline in the distance. Easy street for a while.

Doug had no way of knowing about Bill, rapidly approaching him from behind in a Caddy. Where the hill was a dream-killer on a bike, it was barely noticeable in the air-conditioned chariot, particularly when you were on your cell phone trying to close a sale. He was having trouble.

“It seems like our dryers would solve a lot of problems for you,” Bill beseeched. In the most authoritative voice he could muster, he continued, “If we could find a way to deal with the delivery issues, would you sign the contract this week?”

Bill was careful to emphasize the word week. He'd worked this empty suit of a purchasing manager for weeks. Now he wanted the commission he richly deserved for putting up with another clown-car customer.

What Bill wasn't careful about was where the Caddy was on the road. Peaking the hill, he didn't see Doug near the berm, enjoying the easy pedaling he'd finally earned. The Caddy brushed Doug, sending him somersaulting over his handlebars and into the ditch.

Bill was still on the phone when he saw Doug rolling down after the pieces of his bike. “Idiot cyclist!” was Bill's first reaction. He was still listening to the whining of his customer as he slowed the car out of instinct. He spotted Doug moving around slowly. He also noted the highway was deserted except for him and the cyclist.

“Looks like he'll be alright,” Bill thought, still trying to concentrate on his customer's blabbering. “Screw him. Teach him a lesson for taking up space on a highway.”

At first, Doug didn't quite understand his circumstances. He was sitting in a ditch and all wet. His bike seemed to be in a couple pieces for some reason. A late model Caddy was rolling slowly on the highway next to him. The car soon sped away. Doug thought it would be a good idea to close his eyes for a bit before trying to make sense out of what he was seeing.

Doug's next sensation was hearing what sounded like a motorcycle. Then someone was lifting him and asking him questions about what happened, none of which made much sense. It wasn't until he woke up on a hospital bed that he finally put the pieces together enough to understand he'd become a hit-and-run statistic.

The more he mulled over his situation, the madder Doug got. The police detective who visited his hospital bed laid out the facts for him: Most hit-and-run cases aren't solved. Doug could remember he'd been hit by a Caddy, and he thought he'd seen the last digit of the license number. Apologetically, the detective explained there wasn't much that could be done with so little information.

The detective left. Soon a burly man in a beard and a cheap suit poked his head in the door of Doug's hospital room.

“Are you a detective?” Doug asked.

The large man immediately flashed a wide grin. “That's funny,” he said. “Obviously you don't remember. I was the guy who found you and dialed 911. I just figured I'd see how you were doing. By the way, you look like road kill.”

The news sank into Doug's still slightly addled head. “Dude, you saved my life. By any chance were you on a motorcycle?”

“Yeah. I'm Bob. In a way, you're lucky you were on that highway. It goes past the diner my bike club uses for a lot of meetings. That's where I was headed when I saw you in the ditch. Do you know who hit you?”

Doug related what the detective had told him. “Yeah, that sucks. Hit-and-run drivers are scum. And I'll tell you, guys who are into motorcycles don't much like drivers who don't respect somebody on two wheels. Look, I know a guy. We don't have a lot to go on, but let me do some digging into this for you.”

As Doug looked at his hospital room, Bill looked at his next commission. As usual, he was in his car on the phone with his latest mark, sprinting for the finish line. “Look,” Bill said. “I'd hate to see your deliveries get delayed because you didn't have the right dryer.” Trying to think fast, he continued, “How about we throw in two weeks worth of desiccant bags. Would that get us to a contract today?”

The back-and-forth wrangling got Bill's attention. He saw his highway exit go by. “A loser would get off at the next exit and be late,” Bill thought. He hit the brakes and moved to the side of the highway. Slamming the Caddy into reverse, he backed up toward the exit ramp he desperately needed.

Cars on the highway laid on their horns. A pickup in the curb lane swerved at the last second to avoid the Caddy. An eighteen wheeler coming up behind the spectacle of swerving vehicles and an orchestra of horns rolled down his window and gestured at Bill.

“Yeah, I know,” Bill said in the direction of the semi driver. “You're number one.”

As Bill got up the off ramp the light went red. “Of course,” he fumed. “But it's just pink.” He gunned the Caddy through the light in front of two lanes filled with cars having drivers who didn't understand pink stop lights. As car horns blared , Bill contemplated his next appointment.

As Doug's body mended, his thoughts turned from getting well to getting even. “My brain was scrambled, but I'm pretty sure it was a dark Caddy, and I can still see that last number on the plate I think I might be able to recognize the guy if I saw him again,” Doug told Bob. The two sat in the diner that doubled as the hangout for the Bob's club.

“You're getting some help,” Bob said. “Everybody in the club knows what happened. They're all eyeballing every dark Caddy they come across.”

“Appreciate that, but none of your buddies are going at this like I am,” Doug said. “I spend my nights going through websites that have vehicle registrations trying to find that car. That's pretty much what I do every night.”

“Now I know why you still look like road kill,” Bob said. “You aren't getting enough sleep.”

“I'll sleep after I find that guy,” Doug said.

As Doug combed through databases looking for Bill, Bill had his own problems. He had dialed for dollars, looking for new business by phoning companies cold. Against the odds, he'd gotten a bite. “Come on over,” the purchasing manager had said. “But we're a little hard to find. The streets around here aren't marked and for some reason, GPS sometimes sends people to the wrong address.”

“Getting lost is for losers,” Bill told himself. For once, the customer was right; there was no building where the GPS predicted there would be. The area was a mix of businesses and low-rent apartments tucked into nooks and crannies. Bill strained to see numbers, signs, or anything that could help solve the riddle of his next commission's whereabouts.

What Bill wasn't straining to do was watch the road. That's why he didn't see the dog on the small tree lawn until it was too late to avoid him. The animal saw what was coming and reacted, but not fast enough. The Caddy clipped the animal and sent him flying.

But the car was only moving about as fast as a car moves when the driver is desperately trying to spy a building number or a sign. The dog yelped and limped away. “Dogs that can't get out of the way are losers,” Bill thought.

Unlike Bill's last vehicular brush with a living being, someone was watching the event unfold. Sitting on his motorcycle in an apartment parking lot, the young man first felt a pang of disgust as he saw the dog slink off, apparently none the worse for wear for his encounter with Bill. But his eyes widened as he realized he was looking at a dark Caddy driving off. In a flash he was on the bike and following the car. In a few blocks he had the license plate number.

Then he called his good friend and fellow biker Bob.

Once he finally found the building, Bill's sales call went well. He was figuring what his earnings might be from this hole-in-the-wall business when he noticed the motorcycles. Lots of motorcycles. A middle-aged man stood in front of the Caddy door.

“Remember me?” Doug said. “You hit my bicycle out on the highway a couple months ago and left me laying in the ditch.”

Bill, of course, knew exactly who Doug was, but he figured a bluff is the next best thing to a winning hand. “I think you've got me confused with somebody else. I don't know anything about any bicycle and I've certainly never hit one.”

“I can tell you're lying because I can see your lips move,” Doug said. “I know your car, I know your license, and now I know you. You put me in a hospital for a long time. I've spent every day since trying to find you. And now I have.”

“That sounds tough,” Bill said. In the most earnest voice he could muster, he said“I'm sorry somebody hit you, but it wasn't me.”

“You're living up to my expectations,” Doug said. “I wipe stuff off he bottom of my shoe that's better than you are. I know I can't prove it was you. But you know and I know it was. Now that I found you, I can live my life knowing that at least I told you what you are.

With that Doug turned his back on Bill. “Well that wasn't so bad,” he thought. Then he felt a massive hand on his shoulder. The hand spun him around, putting him face-to-face with Bob.

“He's done with you but we aren't,” Bob said.

Bill saw a sea of faces. They had an expression he recognized instantly: predators looking at meat.