My Favorite Question

Several years ago I heard a great question, granted from a movie, but still a great question. Moreover, the fact it came from a movie makes it all the more interesting when asked in real life. The main male character, while standing in the hall of a catholic school, waiting for a child, politely converses with a nun. As the nun finishes her conversation with the man she asks him one last question. "Have you ever felt the hand of God?"

That question has become prominent in my mind, for in real life, it is not necessarily easy to answer. There are those I have known who would quickly say "no", if for no other reason than it's a safe answer. Yet, in most peoples lives, we see, or hear of experiences we quickly write off to coincidence, pure or dumb luck, or the ever infamous "shit happens", in hopes we no longer have to dwell on them. Only, I seem to dwell on what I cannot explain.

"Have you ever felt the hand of God?" I have asked myself this question several times in my life. Combing through memories and stories collected while passing from adolescent to adulthood.

While working in an ice-house during my senior year at high school, my friend Quintin and I were moving an industrial ice-maker from one side of the shop, surrounded by 55 gallon drums, to the other side, to give us more room to maneuver while bagging ice. The goal was to shift the heavy machine from its 'ice catcher' bin, onto a wheeled rack, making it easier to move. We were making progress, shifting one end then the other closer to the rack.

Being seventeen has its disadvantages, one of which is the limited volume of experience from which to draw upon. Lacking the forethought to see that ice makers have a hole on the bottom of the machine through which the ice drops into the bin, we continued to shift the machine to position it on the rack. As edge of the bin meets the hole, the machine's weight carries it off the bin; falling directly on top of me. I have my arm up, pushing against it as if to hold it in place, but my strength is no match for its weight, and I am pushed downward - not back, but down. The last thing I see is Quintin clawing at the metal, trying to stem its fall. The next thing I know, I hear him ask me, what is to date the silliest question I have ever heard: "Are you dead?" - and he expected an answer.

I am compressed into a squatting position with my feet flat on the floor. With the weight of the box on me I cannot move either leg. The ice-machine has landed in such a way that it stops halfway to the floor and keeps me from moving, yet prevented me from being crushed as I would have had it traversed the remaining distance. The corners of the ice-machine are caught on something; me being one of those something's and one corner is pressed deeply onto my collarbone.

Quintin is just a bit shorter than I but as luck would have it, substantially stronger. He maneuvers around to my side and placing both arms under the edge near my head proceeds to lift the machine the few inches I need to twist my legs free and crawl under the box to safety. As I stand up, I can see how the box is balanced perfectly, for one corner rests on the mobile rack with only an inch of overlap. Another corner is balanced on the edge of a 55 gallon drum by far less than an inch. A third corner is slightly dug into the side of the ice bin itself, and the forth and last supporting corner was me. I tell Quintin, now red from the strain of holding the box, that I am free and he takes a step back and the ice-maker slams to the floor with a roar as if angered by the loss of its prey.

I think of that situation from time to time, remembering how the edges of the box were so finely balanced. I can't help but wonder how I could have been so lucky or is it just that periodically "shit happens"? I would assume so had it not been for another incident that same summer when, again working with Quintin, I happen to be under a car. As the car starts to slip off the jack I hear Quintin yelling to get back, but I am under the car. By the time I start to react it's too late and I can see the car body coming down towards my head. Incredible it stops fractions of an inch from hitting my face. I scramble out from under it to see Quintin laying behind the car and bracing himself with one hand on the ground and the other holding the car from falling the rest of the way. I work quickly to straighten and reset the jack and when we are both safe, we take a step back, breathe, and go back to work, finishing the task, this time with far safer supports in place.

One can look at those events and chalk them up to bad luck, lack of experience, improper preparation, or simple misplaced karma, tacking on as a balance of synchronicity, that having Quintin being in the right place at the right time is what saved me from being physically altered.

"Have you ever felt the hand of God?" That question was on my mind recently as I drove to meet Gunnar, who is just a few years shy of retiring and one of my oldest and closest friends. We meet once or twice a year to catch up with our lives. During the conversation he looks at me and says he feels lucky to be here. He explains that in the weeks prior he was riding his motorcycle home from work, traveling down one of our illustrious 6 lane highways at 65 mph in pre-rush hour traffic when the car in front of him ran over what appeared to be a catalytic converter fallen off some previous cars exhaust system. With no time to react, Gunnar hits the chunk of metal. The results are astounding.

He describes the damage to the bike: the back wheel is completely broken, the front rim is severely bent, the motorcycle body's damaged, and both tires flat. Someone called 911 when the accident occurred and the paramedics showed up a few minutes later. A witness describes what he saw: when Gunnar hit the debris his bike literally went airborne, flying almost three feet in the air. As the bike came down, it hits on the front wheel first then lands on the back destroying it as it hits. Through the half a second incident, still traveling at highway speeds; Gunnar retains some semblance of control and the bike stays upright with him on it. He maneuvers the bike as best he can while other drivers swerve to avoid hitting him. A moment later he is off to the side and safe.

"Have you ever felt the hand of God?" On the way to meet Gunnar, I asked myself if a person would recognize it if it happened, not expecting to receive an answer.

"Have I ever felt the hand of God?" I do not know if I have, but there are those I believe can honestly say they have.

When Dark Clouds Rise

In past jobs I have had the opportunity for small adventures here and there. Such was the trip to San Diego during the Americans Cup in ’92. Our company had presented during a marketing event and my job was to pull it off unscathed. After ten days of non-stop running I was glad it came to an end. My co-worker, Brian and I packed the three-quarters of a million dollars worth of computer equipment into a van, filling every inch of storage with boxes. When we crawled in the van to head back to Dallas I can rest my head on the wall of boxes behind us.

Five hours on the road brings us close to Tucson Arizona during mid-day. We had cross into Arizona without the air-conditioner; turning it on would increase the chances of overheating the van, and it remains off during our trek across the desert like area of the state. With the windows rolled down to alleviate the heat, Brian and I are in shorts and t-shirts, him driving, me, with my shoes off, peeling and eating an orange. We are talking about life, family, and work, as do most people while on the road. Finishing the orange, I reach into the cooler for an ice cube and proceed to use it to wash the stickiness from my hands. Sticking my arms out the window, the 70 mph blast of hot air dries them in an instant. I make a comment to Brian and we joke about having such air-dryers in the restrooms would defiantly dry your hands.

We are traveling in the left lane, about a hundred yards or more behind a semi-truck. The truck passes too close to a thick bush on the side of the road; its branches violently sway from the sudden concussion caused by the 60000 lb vehicle. The bush instantly changed colors from green to black, as if a cloud formed around it. Brian sees it first, expels an expletive, and leans toward the middle of the cab yelling “BEES”. I lean as far from the open window as I can as the van covers the remaining yards. We enter the cloud.

If an arms manufactures had a sense of humor they could not have done better. It is as if we are being shot at with a ‘bee machine gun,’ sending those little varmints towards us at 70 mph. Bees and windshields really do not get along and there are hundreds of simultaneous thumps and thwacks as they hit the van, the glass, and the boxes behind us. A moment later and we are through.

The windshield is plastered with what was once the contents of hundreds of bees. Thick gooey splotches smear as Brian hit the windshield wipers. I check to see if anything is moving in the van and note the boxes behind us are covered in minute remnants of insects. Apparently bees do not fare well with boxes moving at 70 mph either. Although I consider it lucky that none survived the collision but us, I start to realize there are bee parts everywhere; everywhere - the boxes, console, and map, our necks, hair, cloths, and legs, even in my shoe there are smatterings of bee parts. The bouncing off boxes has spread the swarm and the heat dried them where they landed.

We travel a bit further and pull over to dust off. Clean the window as best we can and head back on the road, a bit further from the vehicles in front of us.

Such are the adventures.