Cowboy Hazel

When I walked out of the subway last night, I saw a car on fire or, to be more specific, I saw a late nineties forest green Ford minivan on fire. It was lying half on the sidewalk, half in the street and the driver’s side door was hanging open, swinging slightly in the breeze. Smoke was pouring out from underneath the hood and I could see little balls of flame falling from under the engine to the pavement. I’m not an expert on these things, but I was, nevertheless, somewhat worried by the situation.

No one else, however, shared my concern. The herd of commuters coming out of the subway with me just kept walking and most of them didn’t even give the minivan more than a casual glance. Being in the midst of the crowd myself, I kept walking with them, but was still uneasy about the situation when I reached my apartment.

I saw the van again this morning on my way back to the subway. It was still half on the sidewalk, half in the street, but it no longer had a hood or windows. Someone had ripped the hood off in the night and evidently took it with them because it wasn’t lying on the ground. The windows, however, were; there were little piles of glass surrounding the van. And, someone had closed the door.

Apparently, the authorities became aware of the situation today. When I walked up the stairs on my way home this evening, I saw that the minivan had been marked with a crisp, official-looking, fluorescent orange sticker. Everything is under control now. It’s going to be okay.

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