I was a chalk outline

A recollection.

The car hits me side-on as I cross through the intersection.

I lie on the ground for a few seconds, looking up at the sky, then disentangle myself from the bent frame and crumpled front wheel. I roll over and pull myself up to my hands and knees, then rise slowly to my feet, gingerly testing my weight. I look down at my legs to see cuts and scrapes on my shins. The gash on my right arm throbs slightly.

The door of the offending car bursts open and the driver jumps out and dashes over to me.

“Sorry! Sorry! I’m so sorry! Ok? Ok? I’m so sorry!” she calls out.
“I’m fine,” I reply.
“I’m very sorry! Really ok?” She turns around on the spot.
“Yes, really, I’m fine. Fine.”
“I’m the police calling.”
“The police? Did you say the police? Don’t call the police. It’s just an accident and I’m fine. I don’t think we need them.” I raise my hands to wave her off. “No, please, police are necessary not. I’m fine.”
“No! I’m the police calling. Wait. Don’t move! I’m so sorry!”

The driver runs back her car and begins dialing.

The squad car arrives ten minutes later and three policemen step out. Two head over to speak to the driver and one approaches me.

“You are ok?” he asks.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine, yeah. Bit shaken up but I’ll be fine. I’m not really sure we needed the police.” I blink. I’m talking very quickly. I take a breath. “Fine,” I say. “Police necessary not.”
“No, police call not can happen not. Now, where happened? Here? Bike next to?”
“I didn’t really understand that, sorry. Sorry. More slowly repeat can?”
“Ok,” a pause. “Where… to… fell…? Here?”
“Yes, there.”

He crouches over where I am pointing, and begins drawing an outline on the floor in white chalk, humming to himself. He gets the curve of the head wrong, and redraws it a couple of times, like an artist might sketch with charcoal. The repeated lines form a white chalk comb-over.

He draws the right arm theatrically outstretched, reaching for the intersection. The figure doesn’t have any feet, its shins abruptly amputated at the ankles. I don’t ask why. The left hand is drawn straight down, tight against the body. When he’s completed the outline, it’s nearly a foot too short. I wait for him to add the eyes and nose to complete the pavement gingerbread man, but he doesn’t and so the overall impression is one of a short stormtrooper saluting a superior officer. With a comb-over.

“In this manner?”
“I… uh… maybe? No?” I shake my head.
“But here?”
“Yes.”

He stands up, and nods, then turns and takes a photo of his artwork with a small camera. He produces a clipboard, on which rests a form. He fills in the form with a pencil attached to the clipboard by a piece of string. My eyes are slightly blurry and I can’t read what he’s writing.

The three policemen reassemble in a small huddle and discuss something in hushed tones. The same cop approaches me again.

“Something want to?”
“Do I want to… what? Sorry, understand not.”
“Something want to?”
I furrow my brow. “Do I want to…?” I shake my head.
“Money, want?” he asks.
“Money? Do I want money? Do I want… are you asking me if I want to sue? No, I don’t want to sue.” I shake my head vigorously. “Accident. Money no.”
“Sue want to not? Foreigner though? Foreigners always sue want to?”
I shake my head again. “No. Money necessary not. Bike though?”

He purses his lips and nods his head, then confers with his colleagues. They look over at me a few times and smile, and shake their heads. They walk over to the driver, who is by now sitting sideways in the driver’s seat of her car, legs tapping rapidly on the asphalt. She’s rubbing her face up and down with her hands. She looks up, then stands as they approach.

They jab fingers at her, and point at me. They speak quickly and quite loudly, but it’s too fast for me to hear properly. She nods her head lots. They point at me some more, then back to her, and she nods again. They all walk over to me.

“Sorry. I’m so sorry. I hospital to take can,” say the driver. She’s pale.
“Hospital? You want to take me to the hospital? I don’t need to go to the hospital. It’s fine, look. Just cuts and bruises. Look. Hospital necessary not.” I shake my head some more. I’ve shaken my head a lot in the last five minutes.

Cop number one steps forward. Or cop number two.
“No, hospital go not can happen not. She hospital to take can,” he says, pointing at the lady.
“You want her to drive me to the hospital?! I… she’s just had a car crash! Look at her, she’s shaking! She’s terrified!” I’m quite animated. “Uh… No thank you?”
He looks at me and points a finger. “Yes. Hospital. She pay. Then, new bike. She pay. Then home. She drive.”
“This doesn’t sound like a good idea. I don’t know this person, and she doesn’t look in any condition to drive,” I say. “I….” The gash on my arm throbs again. I sigh, and shrug. “Ok, then.”
“Yes. Problem. Call,” he says, handing me his business card.
“I should call you if I have a problem? Ok,” I agree. “Name is?”
He points to the card. “Yes. Name.”
I sigh. “I’m sorry, I can’t really read Japanese names. Read can not.”
“Yes. Kawasaki am.” He bows.

“You are nice,” he says, in English. He laughs as surprise flashes across my face. It takes a second to recognise my native language.

The police load the crumpled bike into the back of their car. Minutes later, I am sitting in the passenger seat of the car that hit me. I notice a large scratch on the bonnet. I click in my seatbelt and give it a quick tug to check that it locks. She looks at the seatbelt, looks me in the eye, then looks ahead. She says sorry. I grasp for the handle above the door with my left hand, but find it missing. She glances at me sideways and goes red.

The ride to the hospital takes about fifteen minutes. She says sorry about fifteen times.

I am promptly and efficiently bandaged up by a doctor. In addition to treating my legs and arms, he also wraps my head, despite my feeble protestations. A man arrives and speaks to the driver. He apologises to me, then takes care of all the bills. He apologises again, and leaves.

The driver and I head to a bike shop, which is filled with bicycles from floor to ceiling. We walk around looking for something suitable. She grabs my arm, and points at a gleaming mountain bike. At the daily exchange rate it would be about $1000. My arm throbs some more under her grasp and I recoil. She jumps. “Sorry!” Since we left the scene of the accident, I’ve heard sorry eighty times.

I shake my bandaged head so vigorously that the bandage starts to come loose. The bike I was riding this morning cost me $50. It had a basket. It had one gear. It is the kind of bike aunties in England ride to the local market. I gesticulate with my hands. “Basket. Basket.” I look around the shop, and point to an orange bike with a black basket. It has two wheels. It has pedals. My backpack fits into the basket. It is about $80.

“This.”
“That?”
“Yes.”
“Really?”
“Yes. Please.”

We load the bike into the trunk of her car and she drives me home. The fifteen minutes we spend in the car gives her the chance to apologise another fifteen times.

We pull up outside my apartment, and she asks me for my phone number. I hesitate, then scribble it down for her. She waits in the driveway as I struggle up the stairs to the third floor balcony with the bike over my left shoulder. The handlebars swing from side to side, and tap me on the head with each step. As I fumble for my keys by the door, she sticks her head out of the car window.

“Ok?” she shouts up.
“Yes,” I shout down.
“I’m sorry!”
“Yes, I know.” I grit my teeth, and force a smile. “Thank you. Thank you, it’s ok!” I call down. “You can go now. Don’t worry, I’m fine, thank you. Thank you, goodbye!”
“Ok. Thank you. Goodbye. Sorry.”

Some time later, I’m sitting on my couch laughing uncontrollably. I’m a little light-headed. And when the driver calls to ask if I’m ok for the fifth time that evening, I hang up and block her number.