Jackknife

This is non-fiction and really happened to me on my way to work one day.

I will never know if I saw or heard it first. It is dawn; the rain has stopped—at least for now. Route 520 westbound curves to the right as it descends a hill and sprouts exit ramps to I-405. Traffic backs up here, often stops entirely. Every single day.

He is moving too fast as he flies around the curve into the downhill grade and the red sea of brake lights ahead. So am I, but correction is easier in my two-ton Rav4 than in his eighteen-wheeled rig that weighs forty tons fully loaded. The driver reacts, his hands on the wheel and feet on the brakes, and then his problems begin. Even if he knows how it will end, it is still the better option. Better than plowing into the cars ahead.

Apparently, when hauling a load, or even an empty trailer, the light cab is easier to control—much less to stop—than the much heavier trailer lagging behind. The cab responds to the driver’s attempts, which involve steering toward the curbside barrier and braking, but the trailer is still moving at the previous speed and comes up next to the cab on the left side, spinning the cab to a ninety degree angle. I can see that the tractor-trailer has begun a dance that can only wind up with its spine broken and battered against an immovable object or objects.

He is in the left lane, now careening toward the concrete barrier with no control. I am in the right lane. There is one empty lane between us. My knuckles turn white against the black steering wheel and my right foot leaps to the brake pedal. Drivers behind us gawk at the events unfolding and slow accordingly. They must, as no one appears to fill the vacuum that is now the middle lane. This is a busy roadway at morning rush hour, in a place where people are not known for responsible or even attentive driving. I am glad that people are paying attention.

The eighteen-wheeler slams into the guard rail on the left side of the road. The cab is next to me across the empty lane as the laws of motion exert themselves to try to divorce cab from trailer. The cab faces me, but the trailer ricochets along the barrier, striking it repeatedly. It is coming my way sooner than later. The truck’s driver is now just riding it out. The trailer will not be stopped before it has completed its mission.

The truck skids along the barrier on the left for about thirty feet, then changes course and follows the lead of the cab’s wheels, heading in my direction. I am stopped dead in the road, waiting. The tractor-trailer lurches by just thirty feet in front of me. I choke out a sigh of relief as the truck smashes into the barrier on my side of the road, leaving me and my car unscathed. And then it stops, twisted and broken, but upright, entirely blocking two lanes of traffic. This will make thousands of people late for work today.

Still in my car, mesmerized, I realize that have not been conscious of any sounds during the wreck. Maybe there aren’t any, maybe my car is soundproof, or, maybe my podcast is drowning it out. I probably am hearing sounds, but the sensory overload has shut down my hearing and focused my vision, since I am watching the wreck unfold, or fold as it were, in slow motion. I will never know.

With more trepidation than I have ever felt, and with my whole body shaking from the drama, I unclench my trembling hands from the wheel. It takes a significant, conscious effort to force myself out of my car to check on the driver. The cab, and thus the driver’s seat, is high above the barriers, so I know that he is not likely to be actually squished, but there were several impacts at high speeds and I have no idea what to expect. Is he wearing a seat belt? Does he have airbags? If he isn’t wearing a seatbelt, he could have been thrown around in there.

I panic. My heart is pounding and my breathing is ragged. In my mind I see the worst case scenario and it is one that I hope to never see. Much less to be the first responder to. Yet I race to the truck on my treasonous legs, not sure they are up for the task, only to realize that I left my cell phone in the car. I sprint back for my phone. By then others are stopped and I ask the guy behind me to call 9-1-1. Virtually all westbound traffic is stopped, as forward movement is now blocked in two lanes.

I run back to the wreck on ever-weakening legs. Even at the base of the cab, I have no answers on the driver’s status. I can only see that the headlights are still on and that the wipers continue their squeaky passage back and forth. I swallow my fear and clamber up the side of the cab. When I get to the top step, I can finally look into the cab and see the driver. He waves me off with a thumbs-up, never missing a beat on his cell phone, nor interrupting his conversation to speak. With great relief, I vault back down to the highway.

My legs still feel like Jell-O. I tell the other folks who are stopped that he is okay. I return to my car, hoping like hell that the call he is on is one that he made after the rig came to rest, and not one that he has carried on throughout the journey to the jackknife. I guess I’ll never know that either. But I’m going with the former.

Copyright 2008 Antigone Lett. All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten or redistributed.