Today, while running, I turned off Whiting Woods Road onto El Lado Drive, beside the wash, and this truck pulls up next to me. Small truck, one of those pint-sized pickup trucks that gardeners like. A man slides over and rolls down the passenger window. I figure he needs directions.
His eyes are on fire. “They couldn’t see outside their windows, couldn’t see nothing. It was pea soup. They were heading back to Burbank Airport, headed south when it crashed.”
I nod. Do I know this guy?
“But I think Kobe’s still here, he’s here,” he continues, “Right? You know what I’m saying?”
“Yeah.”
“The coach’s wife was pleading with the pilot to turn around and go back, and he finally agreed, and they crashed. They crashed when they were going back.”
“Even God makes mistakes,” I say.
“That’s right. Kobe was a god,” he says, not getting what I really mean.
“I still can’t get over it. I still don’t believe it.”
“I know,” I say.
“I gotta get going or the boss is going to be mad.”
“OK.”
“You take care. I’ll see you,” and he rolls up the window and drives off.
I keep running.