An Incongruent Incident on Union Street

Psyche 101

Professor Kneeland

College of Southern Idaho

An Incongruent Incident on Union Street

It was another “Thirsty Thursday” twenty Virginian summers ago at the Fish Market in Old Town Alexandria. I remember it like it was yesterday. Steve, Mike and I considered ourselves fortunate that our slovenly dressed waiter, remembered to bring us a round of Grumpys-like Schooners filled with Schaeffer to the meniscus point - precisely as Steve had ordered. Three birds-eye view windows were opened to the riverside of the busy bar; allowing fresh smells of the Potomac to waft across the tables. This added a substantial atmosphere to the coin tricks we were about to impress some Russian sailors with. They were on shore leave and pointed to their massive vessel lightly bouncing on the scintillating water docked outside our special window. 

This was fascinating enough, but then suddenly Vroom! Crash! and smashing glass made us all look up from the hammers and sickles of the Russian naval-men’s eye-popping uniforms. Evel Knievel –or so we first thought- had careened his motorcycle off Union Street’s uneven cobblestones, lofted up and over to softly scrape the back of a black Volkswagen Jetta. He landed in the ancient street, a heap of mangled metal inches from the bustling sidewalk pedestrians, some who were pushing babies in perambulators. 

As God is my witness, I will never forget how quick 2 and M came to be in the front row of eyewitnesses, poking their noses out like a couple of Inspector Clouseaus to sniff the steaming evidence. Equally amazing was the response time of the police. They had the major intersection cordoned off quicker than you can chug a small Schaeffer. The motorcycle’s good wheel had barely stopped spinning, as the authorities, meticulously measured and photographed the aftermath of Union Street’s incident. Steve and Mike related their fresh “eyewitness” testimony to an earnestly scribbling police officer. The problem was though; they hadn’t actually seen the crash. They were only speculating about what happened from a memory of the sounds mixed in with their vivid imaginations. Not only that, they began to loudly disagree upon exactly what happened, creating a whole new spectacle in the street. Even the attending officer turned his head downward to cordially chuckle under his breath at my lively friends. 

As the official report was stamped, we lounged back into the bar. I reflected how it was a miracle nobody was seriously injured, but the two continued with their argument, weighing that as more crucial than any pause to consider a thankful tribute. The pre-perestroika Russian sailors anchored to the bar, watched with astonishment as my friends picked apart the finer aspects of the crash for the remainder of the evening. We drank several more schooners, I disremember exactly how many. Another fog started moving in over the Potomac. I complained about the “expert testimony” of the accident they did not actually see, and now of their continued belligerent behavior. They were embarrassing our town –nay our country in front of our Russian compatriots. Early on in the evening, their discourse held hints of a healthy dialectical discussion, but now other bar patrons were tearing tablecloth holes in their constitutional “proofs”, revealing complete contradictions. I truly believed that one of my friends was going to be conked over the head with a beer bottle any second, to be reminded what a dirt nap is. Finally, the bartender hollered “last call! And without further adieu, we hoofed it out of the saloon, stumbling over the cobblestones newly adorned with motorcycle shavings. As I walked between my friends along the waterfront in the long mile home, I became a referee sandwiched between their heated discussions. Passing the wake of the bobbing Russian Schooner I grumpled, “You know what guys, this river shimmering full of life smells nice, but your “eyewitness testimony” sure stinks!”