September, 1987
At a traffic light in Redwood City, I'm in my pickup, waiting for green.
When the light turns, I look down the road to see if anyone is coming. Sometimes I do this; most times I don't.
This time, a flatbed Dodge with a load of steel culvert comes barreling along from the left. He runs the red light neither speeding nor slowing as if he never sees it.
If I'd started without looking, I'd be dead. He'd have struck me broadside.
A happy, oblivious, clean-cut young man was at the wheel, my almost angel of death.
Glad I looked.
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