Dad and Terrie and I were driving to Carie’s Apt and we went though an intersection that I don’t like because I think it’s overly dangerous. So I thought about other intersections that I feel are quite dangerous. I thought about this 3 street intersection in Cincinnati that I used to go though all the time with my grandmother when I used to go out there. From there I was like… How can I make it MORE dangerious~ This is the story that spawned~ I expect to have a second part sometime.

Intersection (Part 1)

It was a four street intersection controlled by a eight way stop sign. It was a cesspool of crime at night. There were many accidents in the intersection every day. There were two streets at ninety degrees to each other just like a normal intersection. Departmental Blvd. ran North-South intersected by Logan Street which ran East-West. Diagonally running North-East to South-West was Illinois Rt. 96. The last street running North-West to South-East was U.S. Rt. 113. It was a horrible intersection.

There was one man that was never touched at that intersection. He sat on the triangle corner of Logan St. and Rt. 113. All the accidents that occurred they didn’t hit him. All the crime that occurred never targeted him. All the cops that tried to enforce laws and help with accidents, they didn’t touch him. He looked about seventy years old and took handouts. He lived on the corner for twenty years and over the years nothing changed. The intersection was always just as dangerous.

He had a photographic memory. He could tell you exactly who ran into who on the evening of August 19th, 1992. This, of course, made him a fundamental interest to the police. He never sold out people that did right by him. Everyone in the city knew him. Every jury believed him no matter what he said. Even if they knew he was wrong.

He lived in a shelter that looked like a bus stop. It wasn’t. It was his house. He lived on the street. It was built in pieces some by the police, some by the local gangs he’s protected, and some by contractors he’s gotten with money from begging.

The cops appeared at his shelter, “We have a question for you.”

“I have an answer for you.”

“Are you aware of an accident three days ago? The two cars were a green Chrysler and a silver Honda.”

“Licence plates ZF3652 and YD9400? Correct?”

The police had to consult their files. After a brief look at the files the lead officer said, “Yes, how did you know?”

“Good memory. You are new here arn’t you?”

“Yes, but you cannot ask a cop these things! I should arrest you!”

The lower ranking officer stepped forward. He had the advantage of living in the town his whole life. “No. We will not be doing that. Can we take you to the court house please? We need you to testify.”

“I’d be happy to.”

Twenty minutes later he was on the witness stand describing everything he saw. The plaintiff, the driver of the green Chrysler, was suing the driver of the Honda for damages. The old man was asked to describe everything he could. He remembered everything, from the weather at that moment to the licence plates, to who failed to stop. He pointed the blame at the driver of the Honda. The defendant shifted nervously in his chair. For all intensive purposes this trial was over. The old man testified in so much detail it took an hour, but also because of that everyone believed him.

Twenty minutes later he was back on his bench. It was his chair and his bed. He loved his life as it was.