slick

The car, green, or blue, it's hard to tell in only the glow of the headlights, careens toward us, sliding to the left, fishtailing, running front-end first into the median thirty feet away. It bounces off the concrete, turns sideways and quickly comes to a stop.

My left hand is tight on the wheel and my right is on the shifter, pretending that driving off is an option. Helpless, Girlfriend and I watched as a half-dozen cars swerved and jerked before righting themselves and passed us, some too close for comfort. This car is the first of the unlucky ones.

A car behind it grazes the median as well, unable to find purchase. Traffic behind them stops. The green-blue car pulls backward, into the other lane, and slowly pulls up next to us. He rolls down his window, I respond in kind.

In a fairly thick accent, Somalian I think, he says, "Can't you pull to the side? This is dangerous."

The statement is heavy with obvious considering he had, seconds before, come within twenty feet of smashing into me. If I had the choice, I wouldn't be here, facing oncoming traffic with my passenger side's rear-end shredded like zip-top bagged, taco-seasoned cheddar.

I nod, say something I won't remember and start to roll up my window. He drives off. A white minivan behind him stops to ask if we're alright. We assure him we are. Traffic returns to normal.

Moments before, I attempted to switch lanes, tapped my brakes at the wrong time and slid. I tried turning into it, sending us farther to the right. I turned the wheel the other direction. The back-end swung, pushing the car to the left, spinning. We'd be facing oncoming traffic but there was none.

The car stopped turning and we stopped spinning but slid backward about ten feet until the loud crunch and jolt brought us to an abrupt halt. Girlfriend called the emergency number immediately but I couldn't hear what she said.

Where's the trooper? It's been awhile. A gold sedan slides to the right, then left, bumping into the median with the driver's side front end. It twists sideways, bounces back and drives past us with a stern glare. Right, sorry buddy. I'm totally ruining your night.

A pair of headlights at the crest of the ramp seem to be coming fast, faster than the others. I can feel her hit the brakes when her eyes see my headlights. Her front end flicks left, then right and she, the third, is now barreling toward us.

My hands are on the wheel again, more for lack of anything better to do than with intent. I wince as her driver's side rear fender catches the median, then bounces off, throwing her front end into it. The back tires continue their trajectory enough to spin her perpendicular to the road.

Without slowing to a complete stop, she pulls out and past us, parking parallel to the median about thirty feet from my now shattered rear bumper. I want to get out to ask if she's alright but the thought of leaving the car, after watching four others ram themselves into the concrete, holds me still.

More headlights but then one pair comes with red and blue flashing lights. The trooper stops fifteen feet in front of us and walks toward us. He checks for damage, asks if we're alright and takes down my license for a report.

He blocks traffic, signaling us with a horn blast, and we're on our way. I take it slow. A quote from a movie I watching a long time ago repeats itself over and over in my head. You never know when you're going to hit a patch of ice.