Chilanga Sprinkles

In the split second it took her body to propel through the windshield and her skull shatter on the pavement, splattering gray matter over the median, over the car she flew out of, even over other cars as they drove by, Eulalia thought more thoughts than she ever imagined possible to think in such a short timespan.

She thought bitterly of how the ride-share company had changed the pick-up spot at the last minute. Instead of meeting at the hotel entrance, they had to walk two blocks to a convention center. The children struggled to keep the wheels of their luggage rolling as they bumped over the uneven sidewalks. She thought about how hurried it had all felt— getting to the meeting spot before the agreed upon time so they would not have to order a new ride, possibly missing their flight… and so they would not have a bad review on their account from a driver bitching that they had not shown up for their ride. She thought about the term “ride-share.” About how communal and friendly it sounds. About how communal and friendly it is not. 

She thought about how the driver had pulled away before all the seatbelts were buckled. Rodolfo, in the middle back seat, could not find his. Eulalia had politely asked the driver to pull over while the child buckled. The driver continued on, getting into the left turning lane at the end of the street. She tried louder, in what she thought was a demanding voice, and said, “You need to pull over and help him find the seatbelt.” The driver’s face in the rearview mirror looked momentarily annoyed. He made the turn, pulled the car to the sidewalk, and twisted his body to face the back, shoved his hand between the seats in a feeble attempt to find the missing buckle. Her demanding voice had not been enough. Eulalia and the driver had looked at each other, the latter’s expression saying he was unwilling to fix the problem and wished to continue. She thought about how she’d contemplated using her harsh you-better-get-it-done voice, but had instead given in for fear of missing the plane, and switched seats with Adolfo.

She thought of how the driver had fidgeted with the buttons on the console, first making his own seat warmer, then cooler, reclining the seat, and then had reached several times to adjust his lumbar support cushion. It was during one such adjustment that he’d lost control of the vehicle.

Eulalia thought of the angry, harsh tone of her voice as she’d called him a motherfucker. She thought of the popping sound of the airbags deploying, of the darkness created by whatever the powder is that comes out of them. She thought of her frightened grandchildren in the back seat, securely restrained by their seatbelts. She thought of the sensation of touching her husband, as her body glided against his on her way to the windshield. And then, she thought no more.