Lightning Reflex

Lightning Reflex

Noel Laflin

7-13-14

I never used proper profanity until I was sixteen years old. And even then, it was just between me and God and the truck that nearly did me in - causing the forbidden expletive  (just picture a word that rhymes with truck) - to escape my virgin lips in the first place. 

Up until that near-life-altering event, I was pretty much a choir boy as far as language was concerned. I had few, if any, bad role models to influence me. My folks never cursed. Friends rarely swore.  There was no cable TV in the fifties or sixties. Even movies were tamer back then.   Although "Midnight Cowboy" had just been released that summer and certainly could have been an influence, as it had an X rating, I was still too young to view it. And, so my naughty word naivety stayed safely intact. 

Oh, to be sure, there were the off-color jokes of childhood where mild vulgar words were whispered and giggled over.   But not - well, you know - the big nasty word itself.

 
Then came the crossing of the East Street incident. I had done it hundreds of times in order to get to the store across the way. My mother was in need of something for dinner and had sent me on my way. 

Now, if I had not been so lazy I would have walked the relatively short distance to the corner light and crossed with safety. However, most of us in the neighborhood rarely did that. We took our chances to make the wild dash and save a minute.

 
Looking back on the scene that late afternoon, I really don't know how I did not see that semi-truck barreling northbound. But I did not - and stepped off the curb.

 
The blaring horn, so skillfully applied, made me look like a boy performing the hokey-pokey on amphetamines. 

 
I felt the rush of the big rig as it blew by – just a foot from my chest - spinning me backwards simultaneously.  

"FUCK!" I cried aloud.

 
Both of my hands immediately flew face ward, clamping tightly over my mouth. 

I looked heavenward certain that I would be struck by a bolt of lightning. 

Nothing happened.

 
I looked to the left, then right, behind me and finally up again - certain in the fact that I’d be pulverized momentarily.

The smiting never occurred.

I cautiously repeated the word. 

Still no response from God. 

I danced about a bit while chanting the hitherto forbidden word over and over again.

 
It was with a crazed sense of liberation, not to mention thankfulness, that I then dashed across the street (having given both directions a very thorough check, check and double check). I tested my new word every step of the way.

 
Apparently God had bigger issues with which to deal, I thought in justification of my new Tourette-like state and the lack of fireworks on his part.

 
All of these years later, I’m happy to reflect upon just how freakin’ glad I am of that fact.

However, one should only test his luck so much; God might unexpectedly have a little free time on his hands and be listening in.  And, there is probably still a bolt in the arsenal bearing my name.