C. B. Wiland

Death on Hold: Limbo: the First Circle C. B. Wiland

Sighting my destination, a glitzy watering hole directly across the steaming boulevard from The Cavern, I stepped from the curb onto the hot asphalt and headed for the concrete center island. Dodging, stopping, vaulting--once more the invincible Florida State wideout-I reached my midstream destination breathless and unscathed. In my wake, I'd left several stalled vehicles and a few frustrated motorists chewing their lips and signaling their chagrin with the traditional stiff middle-fingered salutation. Unabashed, I acknowledged their display of plebian discourtesy by smiling and lifting both arms above my head and offering a double-barreled, Nixon-style response in kind. Flushed with success, purposefully and smugly certain of my invincibility, I set out again and managed to cross the first of the five remaining lanes without incident. I did pause momentarily to offer a congratulatory smile to the lovely driver of a BMW who managed a squealing stop with her bumper vibrating against my leg. It was almost sensual. Undaunted by the close call, I continued on giving the white-faced driver a quick wave of appreciation . Then my luck ran out. The brief pause propped up against the BMW's bumper broke my rhythm and subsequently caused me to stumble into the path of an extended-cab pickup, a Dodge Ram I believe. I don't remember the impact, just a blinding light and a mind-numbing explosion. That's when my unanticipated sojourn in the circle of death-the first circle--began.