Read Online As Luck Would Have It by Mark Goldstein - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Mark Goldstein
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problem and that I could in fact order the chicken ca c c iatore that Angelo, or whoever was now doing the cooking would prepare. It was scrumptious. Mom and Dad always ordered veal scaloppini there because i t was something they never had at home and which I have to admit, was a close second to the chicken.
Since December 8, 1974 fell on a Sunday, there was no school on my birthday. As things turned out, I would not be returning to school until after Christmas break ended in early January. But that afternoon, Dad took Joseph, Billie and me to the movies to see Young Frankenstein , the humor of which partially blew past me, but caused Dad to laugh hysterically. It was later in the evening while we were on our way to Angelo’s that the snow began accumulating on the roadways and my mother nervously cautioned Dad to be careful as he gripped the wheel more tightly.
****
Mr. Casslemond left the warehouse after calling his wife to let he r know he had a late delivery and that he would be home before dinner in any event, and hopefully in time to catch at least the second half of the Bears game against the San Diego Chargers; it was being played in California and wouldn’t start until late in the afternoon. Since it was Sunday, he was alone in the warehouse since they were technically closed. Charles had helped him load a few crates into the truck earlier, as he promised the nursing home that he would make an unscheduled delivery that afternoon. But when Mr. Casslemond pulled the truck out of the driveway, he regretted not calling the home ahead of time , and to expect their order first thing on Monday morning instead . It was snowing again and very cold for this early in the winter. Well, it was only a few miles out of his way actually and as long as he could find a parking space on their block big enough for the Ford panel truck, it would be OK.
Mr. Casslemond finished with the nursing home delivery and headed back to the truck to go home. He’d been up a long time and was tired and cold. He imagined the palm trees and warm breezes in Pensacola where t hey ultimately decided their new home would be. As he drove, Mr. Casslemond fantasized about a life in retirement where he could play golf all year and be free from at least some of life’s worries. His wife would organize parties, play cards at the club they would join ; they’d go to watch the White Sox or Cubs play during spring training. Mr. Casslemond kept picturing the future, even as in the present in the snowy Chicago darkness, the truck entered the sharp curve where the highway turned nearly 90 degrees just a half mile from the intersection where he would have normally turned into his neighborhood.
He’d driven this stretch easily a thousand times , in all kinds of whether, but this time, th e pull of the wheels grabbed Mr. Casslemond's attention and he realized suddenly that he needed to slow down. As he braked, the rear of the top-heavy Ford began to fishtail slightly. He jerked the wheel to the right and the truck seemed to want to cooperate at first, but then it suddenly began to slide onto the right shoulder, which caused him to panic as he tried to coax the big vehicle back to the left again. He knew he had to slow down somehow; he was going much too fast. He focused his attention completely on what he could see of his lane markers ahead; sure he could le vel it out, but for some reason on this night, whether from the snow or his weariness, or just from some bad luck, the truck kept sliding more until Mr. Casslemond lost control of it completely and it began to move perpendicular to the highway, across the center line, blocking both his and the oncoming lane as it continued to slide at a frightening sideways angle, as if guided by some invisible auto pilot that was unmindful of his back and forth pulling on the steering wheel.
The Dart hit the cab of the truck more or less head on. Mr. Casslemond was dazed
Since December 8, 1974 fell on a Sunday, there was no school on my birthday. As things turned out, I would not be returning to school until after Christmas break ended in early January. But that afternoon, Dad took Joseph, Billie and me to the movies to see Young Frankenstein , the humor of which partially blew past me, but caused Dad to laugh hysterically. It was later in the evening while we were on our way to Angelo’s that the snow began accumulating on the roadways and my mother nervously cautioned Dad to be careful as he gripped the wheel more tightly.
****
Mr. Casslemond left the warehouse after calling his wife to let he r know he had a late delivery and that he would be home before dinner in any event, and hopefully in time to catch at least the second half of the Bears game against the San Diego Chargers; it was being played in California and wouldn’t start until late in the afternoon. Since it was Sunday, he was alone in the warehouse since they were technically closed. Charles had helped him load a few crates into the truck earlier, as he promised the nursing home that he would make an unscheduled delivery that afternoon. But when Mr. Casslemond pulled the truck out of the driveway, he regretted not calling the home ahead of time , and to expect their order first thing on Monday morning instead . It was snowing again and very cold for this early in the winter. Well, it was only a few miles out of his way actually and as long as he could find a parking space on their block big enough for the Ford panel truck, it would be OK.
Mr. Casslemond finished with the nursing home delivery and headed back to the truck to go home. He’d been up a long time and was tired and cold. He imagined the palm trees and warm breezes in Pensacola where t hey ultimately decided their new home would be. As he drove, Mr. Casslemond fantasized about a life in retirement where he could play golf all year and be free from at least some of life’s worries. His wife would organize parties, play cards at the club they would join ; they’d go to watch the White Sox or Cubs play during spring training. Mr. Casslemond kept picturing the future, even as in the present in the snowy Chicago darkness, the truck entered the sharp curve where the highway turned nearly 90 degrees just a half mile from the intersection where he would have normally turned into his neighborhood.
He’d driven this stretch easily a thousand times , in all kinds of whether, but this time, th e pull of the wheels grabbed Mr. Casslemond's attention and he realized suddenly that he needed to slow down. As he braked, the rear of the top-heavy Ford began to fishtail slightly. He jerked the wheel to the right and the truck seemed to want to cooperate at first, but then it suddenly began to slide onto the right shoulder, which caused him to panic as he tried to coax the big vehicle back to the left again. He knew he had to slow down somehow; he was going much too fast. He focused his attention completely on what he could see of his lane markers ahead; sure he could le vel it out, but for some reason on this night, whether from the snow or his weariness, or just from some bad luck, the truck kept sliding more until Mr. Casslemond lost control of it completely and it began to move perpendicular to the highway, across the center line, blocking both his and the oncoming lane as it continued to slide at a frightening sideways angle, as if guided by some invisible auto pilot that was unmindful of his back and forth pulling on the steering wheel.
The Dart hit the cab of the truck more or less head on. Mr. Casslemond was dazed
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