Pier Pressure 
Pier Pressure
by Simon Fairnington
When they say, 'It started like any other day,' it doesn't do you any good. You can't start each day wondering if this is the day when your boring existence is going to come crashing round you. . . It would drive you nuts.
Ten seconds before it happened 1 was bored. Driving down the motorway. So bored, I have on this drive time CD.
I'm listening to the Beach Boys, when I see it and think, 'That's weird.' Of course you never think, 'That's weird, and I should slam on my brakes,' 'cos it's a hundred yards ahead.
So there it was, in the distance: this wheel bouncing down the motorway.
I'm thinking, 'That's strange,' when this guy on my outside lane starts cutting me up. No signals, just starts pulling across. And I'm blaring away on my horn, eventually he backs off, but then the guy in his passenger seat with his window down gives me the finger. Bloody nerve! So I'm starting to pull alongside, 'cos I'm gonna give him the finger back. And I'm so taken up with this hairy hand with a gold ring—and its middle finger that's practically in my face—that I'm not concentrating on what's happened a hundred yards ahead:
That wheel bouncing down the motorway was off a car that's swerved and now stopped. Right in front of us. I slam the brakes full on... but it was too late.
And you just know you're not going to stop in time.
There's a period of time—a split second, but it feels like ages—when you're staring at the inevitable, coming right at you, knowing that in a moment you're going to be dead, or your life won't be the same again.
So you watch and wait.
Then 'Dumpf! Next thing, there's an air-bag in my face. Can't see a thing. I'm stunned.
The air-bag flops away. Then I realise: I've survived—amazing things air-bags.
But my body's still throbbing all over. I don't even know if I'm badly hurt. And all I'm aware of is the Beach Boys giving me good vibrations.
I'm desperate to get out of the car, panicking, thinking it's about to blow up. The door's so bent I have to kick it open. The car's a write-off
I look behind me.
And there's a pile up: The motorway's almost completely blocked. Bits of junk all over the place. There's cars honking and jostling to get through.
Then I throw up. I've also peed my pants.
I can hear tyres screeching as cars are accelerating, hacked off because they've been stuck in traffic. But others are going slowly, peering at me like I'm some exhibit.
And I'm swearing at these cars having a good look, and screaming, 'What are you looking at!'
Then I look down and see it. . .
At first you think, 'Never.'
So I pick it up...
It's an arm. ... Neatly severed. Like it's been cleaved by a butcher. Just below the elbow.
You think, 'No. Can't be.' But it was warm. With this big hairy hand and a gold ring: The one I'd seen seconds earlier.
I throw it down and start screaming at it: 'Bastard! Would've stopped sooner, if it hadn't been for you. Bloody well giving me the finger!'
And 1 kick it, kick this arm right into the grass verge. And I'm thinking,
'Bastard. Deserve to lose your arm.'
And by some freak, it lands upright. With his middle digit raised. Can you believe it? He's still giving me the finger.
That's when I lose it, completely. I start laughing hysterically, then crying. Weird. Then suddenly I'm calm. Well, not calm. Sort of numb.
And part of me starts thinking: 'You ought to save his arm.' And another part's thinking: 'Bastard, deserves to lose it—he caused me to crash.'
Then I notice the gold ring again. And I twig: he's married. And what if he's got kids?
And that pulls me up short. So I go and pick the arm up. And all of a sudden I've just got to get his arm back to him.
I suppose I'm still in shock. 'Cos I'm wondering around. And there's people crying and sirens. And I'm saying, 'Who's lost this arm9 Anyone want an arm?'
And there are no takers. So I start counting people's arms: 'One, two. Can't be him.'
Still no takers. So eventually I just sit on the barrier with this arm. I get the idea I've got to hold it up, so none of the blood spills out.
This paramedic comes up and asks if I'm OK.
I say, 'I found this arm.'
'Give it here,' he says. He speaks into his radio. An ambulance pulls up. I'm taken away. And that's the last I see of the arm.
Four months later I'm in hospital receiving physio for whiplash. And this guy comes UP and sticks out his hand. I shake it thinking he's a doctor.
And then he says, 'Thanks. You saved my arm.'
'What?'
'This.' He holds up his left hand. And there it is: the same hairy hand with the gold ring. And there's this dirty great body on the end of it.
I touch his forearm with my fingers, and it's warm just like before.
And I'm wondering how much he knows.
'How are you doing?' he says.
And I'm embarrassed, 'cos I kicked his arm into the grass.
'1 should be OK,' 1 say, 'My own stupid fault. Should've stopped in time. 1 was distracted.'
Too right, I'm thinking, a dumb stupid testosterone moment. All he did was give me the finger. In fact, I crashed because I was trying to do the same back to him. Then 1 see the joke: I ended up 'giving him the finger' literally. But I didn't dare say anything.
'How about you?' I ask.
'The Physio reckons I'll regain most movement. Won't be able to play guitar though, not like I used to.'
'Oh no,' 1 say, 'Were you a professional?'
'A professional accountant.' And he laughs. 'Why complain? I'm lucky to be alive. I got my arm. And I can pick up my kids.'
I was going to ask him if he could raise his middle finger like he used to. But I'm sure he didn't know... that he'd had it right in my face ... and that 1 kicked it into the grass.
He holds his left arm out.
So I took hold of it.
I'm a much safer driver now. And you learn to appreciate things ... like arms ... and fingers.
I was watching telly the other day, flicking through the channels. And I hopped onto this guy playing guitar. Didn't know who he was. But his hands were going nineteen-to-the-dozen. So I just watched... and listened.
Amazing things fingers.