If you’ve ever fallen asleep at the wheel, you know what a bewildering experience it is to wake up. And if you survive, and bring your car to a safe stop, those moments of terror recede into something between a dream and a memory.
Four years ago, I was a day student at a small boarding school in rural Arizona. To avoid the less-than-spectacular public schools in north Phoenix, I drove 45 minutes to campus every morning as the sun crept up through the right window over stands of saguaros. Alone with my thoughts, I set my radio to whatever station I wanted and kept warm by sipping from a huge thermos of coffee.
One morning during my final semester, just three miles from the turn off for my school, my mind began to wander. I didn’t think I’d been up late the night before, but I must have grown inured to my caffeine intake. Just as I passed underneath a set of massive, drooping power lines, I looked up at the gray-blue morning sky and dozed off.
I certainly don’t remember falling asleep, but I remember waking up to a rush of noise, as if I were underwater at the bottom of a waterfall. I was speeding though the median, a large v-shaped ravine covered in shoulder-tall weeds, and my Volkswagen was still set on cruise control at 80 mph. All I could see was that gray-brown grass, hurtling by me. The car had lost traction and was beginning to spin laterally, back towards the northbound lanes. I turned the wheel, and the tires suddenly caught traction, slingshotting me back over the road.
I couldn’t react quickly enough, and crossed over the shoulder and into the rocky desert. I slammed on the brakes, turned back toward the highway to avoid the fencing in front of me, and threw the vehicle into a spin. 180 degrees later, the car came to a stop.
Stunned, I watched the dust settle around the vehicle, my hands clenched at ten and two. I was facing the highway, and as I exhaled, I saw a beat-up white Cadillac speed past, without hesitation, and disappear over a rise. It was my ex-girlfriend’s car, unmistakable in its shabbiness with an American flag vanity plate on the front and the upholstery withered from the Arizona heat. I guessed that she would make it to morning announcements on time.
I got out, walked to the front of the car and saw that it was in surprisingly good shape—a side panel was crumpled in, by what; I don’t know. There were a few dents on the hood, and all of the plastic skid plates on the underside of the car had been torn off.
I got back in and drove up the embankment toward the highway. As if in a dream, a black Chevy truck sat parked on the shoulder, and leaning against it was a portly, sun-cooked man in jeans and a ragged black t-shirt, his wispy grey hair bound into a ponytail. I seem to remember glasses, of the thin, wire-rimmed sort, and in the bed of his truck, two pale cactus skeletons sat upright, tied to one another.
I parked, got out of the car, and as I walked toward him, his features became more discernable, but I did not recognize him. I began to wonder why I was walking towards him. I assumed that he was simply verifying that I wasn’t hurt.
Before I could say a word to him, he came, took my hands and squeezed them. His skin was rough and dry. He then asked me if I prayed—I don’t, really—but I nodded in assent and he offered up a few words asking for guidance, thanking the lord Jesus for bringing me through the accident unscathed. I do not remember what he said. I wasn’t listening. I’m not sure I even closed my eyes.
Then, the Cactus Reverend climbed back into his truck and slowly drove away. I climbed back into my own vehicle and rode the remaining three miles to school, wondering if I had somehow fooled the reaper. I parked in the front lot as onlookers gawked at the dents and scratches on my car. Then, I walked up to the chapel, wiping the sleep from my eyes.
