My best friend forever told me this story. She was on the back of a motorcycle for a quick ride down the West-Side Highway. In the dark. In the night. In the shadow of the twin towers. She’s Nina. She survived. She’s from Brooklyn. Of course she survived. She’s Nina.
LIVING IN THE FAST LANE
AT
THE WORLD TRADE CENTER
Two giants. One hot motorcycle. One brash child with wild ideas.
Two giants alerted by a winding engine. One hot motorcycle changing lanes. One brash child sensing the risk.
The giants with widened eyes. One hot motorcycle flying toward no exit. One brash child becoming doubtful.
Giants fearfully leaning to watch. One hot motorcycle losing options. One brash dear child knowing.
Giants sobbing. Motorcycle crashing. Child wailing.
Sobbing. Crashing. Wailing.
Silence. Torn flesh. Blood.
Life in the fast lane.
Fast life.
Fast.
Giants.
Child.
G. M. Goodwin
30 September 2018
Playing Fair and Being Kind 
Unc.GMac, I lost a dear friend to a motorcycle incident that was described to me by ” ear and eyewitnesses” as eerily similar to Ninas’s misfortunate ride. I found your words both disturbing and comforting. Your writing is excellent as you know. Your retelling of the incident itself was disturbing. When you put the onus of responsibility for the incident squarely on the operator; where in my opinion, it rightly belonged I felt that was intellectually correct. Until I read “Life In The Fast Lane” it never occurred to me, my friend created his own incident and died as a result of it. Maybe that was the point of it. Thank you for casting a different light on an old trauma.
Thanks for your comments, Jamie. The part of this I find most poignant is the part after the end. I tell the story knowing I will not be able to describe the agony felt by survivors and friends when the news arrives. Exactly what you did here. I am sorry you had to live to experience the world without your friend.
Hugs.