Stuck on 75

1

THERE I WAS, CRUISING DOWN Interstate 75 in my snappy red Yaris, stuffing an Egg McMuffin in my mouth. Armed with a real go-getter attitude, I was planning a big day of selling ads in Miami. The sun was just coming up. The sky was clear. The air was nice and cool, blowing in my open windows.

God, what a gorgeous morning!

Then this fricking fuel tanker blew by me, one of those huge eighteen-wheel jobs. The guy passed so closely that his wake pushed my tiny Toyota into the next lane. That prompted a power bitch in a black Jag to lay on her horn. She had come up on my tail like a racecar driver in the Daytona 500.

Suddenly, my ass was in a jam.

In desperation, I tossed the Egg McMuffin onto the passenger seat, grabbed the wheel with both hands, and struggled to regain control. As cars whizzed by angrily, I gingerly resettled back into my original lane. At least my coffee didn’t spill out of its holder.

Leaning out my window, I shook a fist at the tanker driver. You miserable mother trucker! I yelled.

Even though he had surged ahead, I still caught a glimpse of the jerk in his large side mirrors. He was giggling.

Jesus, talk about tinkling in your bowl of Cheerios. I was ticked. But I quickly cooled off. I had too much business to conduct that day, too many hands to shake. I couldn’t afford a foul mood. Slowing down, I picked up my half-eaten Egg McMuffin. While keeping an eye out for other maniacal drivers, I resumed munching and sipped my McDonald’s coffee, laced with three creams, just the way I like it.

Eventually, I rediscovered my morning reverie.

The name is George Leon, president, publisher, and editor of GoWeston, a bimonthly community magazine. Our offices are based in—you guessed it—Weston, an upscale city of 75,000 people that sits fifteen miles west of Fort Lauderdale on the edge of the Everglades. Though a small operation, GoWeston is flourishing even though journalism in general is struggling. The reason is simple. We give readers exactly what they want: happy features about everyday people, a colorful presentation, and lots of glossy photos. Hell, we’ve even turned a sixth-grade softball game into a splashy, front-page display. Murders and mayhem? Not our style. We let newspapers and television blitz people with bad news.

Everyone on my small staff wears a couple of hats. The circulation manager also sells classified ads. The receptionist doubles as the office manager. The graphics artist draws illustrations and lays out the magazine.

Me? Most of my time is spent on administrative chores. But I also edit copy, write the editor’s column, and sell retail ads. At age thirty-two, I can multitask like nobody’s business.

On that pretty Thursday morning, the third day of March, I was looking spiffy in a blue Armani suit and spit-polished black Florsheim shoes. I was going to hit two existing accounts to make sure the clients were happy. Then I planned to make a few cold calls, which almost always turned out to be fruitful. I can be very persuasive.

As I navigated through heavy traffic, my cell phone rang. I put down my breakfast carefully and pulled the phone from its holster on my belt.

Hey, George, it’s Mercedes.

Mercedes Delgado was the sole reporter and photographer—remember the two hats thing?—on my staff. A lovely young woman, she had a feisty Cuban spirit, always raring to take on the world. She was also fresh out of journalism school and unable to land a job anywhere else.

Morning, Mercedes. You’re up early.

Yeah. And it hurts. Listen, I’ll be over at Regional Park this morning to interview that grandmother who runs marathons. She’s training there today. It was one of the more interesting assignments I had parceled out to Mercedes. A grandmother in her mid-seventies was able to run 26.2 miles under five hours. It was a sure-fire cover story.

Shoot lots of nice photos, I instructed, mother hen that I am.

Yes, George, Mercedes said tolerantly. I won’t be back until mid afternoon. Okay?

I could have asked her why she needed five hours to undertake such a simple story. But I knew why. It took Mercedes a long time to do anything because her skills were so raw.

Yeah, sure.

George, can I ask you something?

Shoot, I said, hungrily eyeing my Egg McMuffin.

Do you think there will ever be a time when I can write a story that has more substance? I don’t mind doing all these silly little features. But I want to do something newsier at some point, okay?

It was true. Since joining the magazine five months earlier, Mercedes had written about pet stores, bridal shops, and ballet classes. But I felt no sympathy. Our readers ate up those stories. Perhaps, I responded patiently. But you knew the deal when I hired you, Mercedes. We’re a community magazine, not a newspaper. Those ‘silly little features’ are our bread and butter.

I guess. When will you be back?

I glanced at the silver Omega wrapped around my wrist. It was still shy of 7:00 a.m. Probably before you. I’ve got appointments with the Marlins and FedEx. Then I’m going to cold call the Doral Country Club. See you later?

Okay. Hablamos. Mercedes was bilingual and occasionally broke into Spanish, although she knew I could barely speak a word of that language.

Right. I snapped the cell phone shut and sighed. Although she had a lot to learn, I knew Mercedes soon would seek a more challenging job. She already was bored with stories about granny marathoners.

I picked up my breakfast sandwich and prepared to take a bite when, about a quarter mile ahead, the fuel tanker that had almost knocked me off the highway exploded.

2

MY JAW FELL TO THE floorboards. The whole truck heaved violently upward, erupting into an inferno. Brilliant orange clouds of fire mushroomed into the sky. Metal, tires, and glass sprayed in all directions as thousands of gallons of gas ignited.

The flaming wreck drifted a short ways and plowed into some cars that had been bogged down in traffic. Every one of those vehicles was instantly engulfed. So were a few others that had been trailing too closely behind the tanker, including the power bitch in the Jag.

Good Christ, I murmured.

Then the earth jolted. Something akin to a crack of thunder, only much louder, rocked my car and rattled my teeth. The concussion wave had finally reached me.

I was momentarily stunned, until I realized I was about to smash into the rear of a Chevy that was right in front of me. It had screeched to a stop, while I was rolling along at more than fifty miles per hour.

Swerving hard to the left, I barely missed the car. But I started to skid sideways. My Egg McMuffin flew out of my hand and into the windshield. My coffee, jarred out of its holder, splashed all over the dashboard.

Somehow, I straightened the wheel and angled off the highway onto the grassy median. My car bounced over rough ground before coming to a halt halfway across the grass. It turned out to be a good move. I-75 quickly transformed into a giant demolition derby. Front grills rammed into back bumpers. Some cars spun out. Others rolled over.

Several other vehicles joined me, darting onto the median and seeking safety. Among them was a Porsche convertible driven by a young woman. She pulled beside me, stopped and stared straight ahead, apparently in shock. A little white poodle in the seat next to her was yapping its head off.

I was aghast. My beautiful March morning suddenly had transformed into a nightmare. Black smoke blanketed the area. Car horns were crying. People were screaming. And my ears were ringing from the explosion.

My survival instincts told me to get the hell out of there. All I had to do was turn my car around and drive along the median to the nearest exit ramp. My gut, however, told me to hang tough. I was in the middle of a major disaster, and people needed help. So I shut down the engine, jumped out of my car, tore off my jacket, and loosened my tie.

Surveying the area, I immediately saw a school bus that had stopped on the interstate, its front end on fire. Even from a distance I could tell that several children were trapped inside. They were shrieking and pounding on the windows.

I sprinted hard to the bus, arriving in seconds. Operated by St. Somebody’s Catholic School, it had slammed into the back of another vehicle. That set the bus’s engine compartment ablaze, bent its frame, and jammed the exits shut. Peering through the windows, I saw about a dozen girls jumping around, delirious with terror. They looked to be in their early teens, all wearing blue shirts and white shorts. Apparently, they were a sports team of some sort. They were accompanied by two women. One, presumably the driver, was desperately banging her shoulder against the front door. The other, a young woman, pounded her fists against a window, trying to break it out.

Please! she screamed. Please! Help!

Hang on, I hollered back.

I’m not sure why no one else attempted to rescue the girls. There were plenty of other motorists in the vicinity, but they remained at a safe distance, observing. Perhaps they were afraid the bus would soon combust. At any rate, I alone ran to the back of the vehicle, where I sized up its large emergency exit door. Seeing this, many of the girls streamed to the back of the bus, still shrieking.

Stand back, I yelled.

At five foot eleven and a hundred and seventy pounds, I might not look all that big. But I’m pretty strong, particularly in my legs, thanks to all the laps I swim every day. I took a good running start, charged the back of the bus and lifted off. Flying feet first, I aimed my right heel into the middle of the exit-door window. Timing it just so, I kicked out my leg.

At impact, the window busted apart. The girls instinctively turned around to avoid the spraying glass. I bounced back and fell on the ground. Quickly getting to my feet, I climbed through the opening. Because shards remained around the window frame, my shirt was torn at the shoulder and some flesh got scratched. At least I was inside with the girls, who didn’t stop screaming for a second.

I gave the emergency door a solitary kick, and it popped right out, making a tinny sound as it hit the ground. Jumping out, I stood to the side of the door.

Let’s go, let’s go! I beckoned. Move it, ladies!

With the engine fire now sprouting from the dashboard, most of the girls scampered right out. I grabbed those who hesitated at the door by the waist and swung them to the ground.

Run to the grass, I yelled again and again, as each girl got off. Get away from the bus! The last girl hopped out, taking her lacrosse stick with her.

Finally, I helped the two adults to the ground, taking each by the hand.

Your girls are over there, I said to the younger woman, pointing toward the median, where the teens were huddled, whimpering and blubbering.

She was pretty, with blue eyes and brunette hair, although her face was now coated with sweat. She gazed at me, as though she was trying to say thanks. Then she just nodded and ran to her kids. I guessed she was their coach.

Anyone else inside? I asked the driver, a hefty, middle-aged woman.

I’m the last. Much appreciate the help, sir, she said and trotted toward the others.

To be certain, I climbed back on the bus and looked around. I even checked the front seats, defying the snarling fire. Satisfied that the vehicle was indeed empty, I jumped out. The second my feet hit the roadway, the entire hulk roared into flame. I had to gallop away to avoid being broiled. Twenty yards later, I stopped and doubled over, perspiring profusely and breathing hard. That’s it, I thought. I’ve played hero enough for one day.

But when I looked up, I noticed someone else was in dire trouble. Not far from the burning bus, a man was slumped in the front seat of a black Hummer. Its engine too had caught on fire. Dammit! I yelled. I ran to the vehicle and peered through the rolled-up window. The driver was either passed out or already dead. Flames licked his door, and unbearable heat quickly enveloped me.

Pulling my hanky from my pants pocket, I put it over the door handle. It was just enough protection to keep the hot metal from searing my skin. I popped the door open and, as rapidly as I could, unbuckled his seatbelt. The interior of the Hummer felt like a furnace.

Clutching the guy’s limp right arm, I yanked him over my left shoulder. Good thing he was on the light side, perhaps one hundred fifty pounds. Still, it took every ounce of strength I had to carry him to the grass, where I gently placed him on his back.

He was obviously a man of means. His thick salt and pepper hair had been professionally styled. He was clad in dress slacks and a long-sleeve shirt. Kneeling next to him I put two fingers to his throat and found a weak pulse. His breathing was shallow, and his hands and face were burned.

I was about to call 9-1-1 when he briefly regained consciousness and grabbed my forearm. Thank you, he rasped.

I nodded. Glad to be of service.

He released his grip and passed out again. When I stood up, I saw that an army of paramedics had arrived and was tending to injured drivers. I managed to catch their attention, and a couple of them rushed over. They placed an oxygen mask and a neck brace on the man. Seeing that he was in good hands, I turned to leave only to find the young woman from the school bus standing right there.

Who are you? she asked.

I shrugged. Just a guy who lent a hand.

You saved our lives. You saved my girls. I need to know who you are.

I appreciate the thought, ma’am. But I did what anyone else would …

You were the only one who helped. Who are you?

I smiled politely. Look, I’m glad everything turned out okay, ma’am. But I’d rather not make a deal out of this. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d best get going.

I walked away, hoping that was the end of that.

But you saved our lives, she called out to me. Who are you?

3

WITH TRAFFIC ON I-75 SNARLED in both directions, escape was no longer an option. Plain and simple, I was stuck. It would be hours before this mess unraveled.

I could have returned to my car, turned on the air, and been comfortable. That would have beat running around in the wretched smoke and heat. But damn; I wanted to know why that tanker blew up. So I started walking toward the flaming wreck to see what I could find.

I might be a magazine publisher. But at heart I’m a journalistic sleuth, and a damn good one at that. Along with a master’s degree in journalism, I have five years of investigative reporting experience at a very prestigious publication.

No, not the New York Times.

The Universal Planet.

Okay, so it’s a supermarket tabloid. Still, during my time there, I unearthed some real humdingers. For instance, I discovered that legendary aviatrix Amelia Earhart had not been lost at sea. Rather, she quietly worked at the front desk of a Boise, Idaho, hotel until she died in the mid-1980s. In addition, contrary to news reports, Marilyn Monroe didn’t die of a drug overdose. Rather, she was murdered by a jilted ex-lover; to this day police are still hunting for the killer. And, yes, I was the one who exposed that pop star Britney Spears had a penchant for partying with space aliens, which explained her bouts of lunacy.

Of course, these articles were mostly fiction. But while working for the Planet, I developed an instinct to find the story behind the story. I learned never to accept the official version as gospel. And I became an expert at digging deep to get protected information.

How did I end up at a tabloid? They found me. Based in Boca Raton, Florida, the Planet scouted out the best young writers in the nation. Then it offered a staggering amount of money, in the hundreds of thousands. That was the price a sleazy tabloid had to pay to lure top prospects away from mainstream journalism.

Of course, if they accepted, those prospects paid a steep price as well. They were forever considered media whores, banished from working at reputable newspapers. Graduating at the top of my class at Columbia University and having dollar signs in my eyes, I fit the Planet’s bill perfectly. I commenced working there immediately after grad school.

Whore that I am.

Although I sullied my reputation, I made enough money at the Planet to launch GoWeston. In other words, I parlayed working for a scandal sheet into publishing a respectable magazine.

Mom was so proud!

Now, I intended to put my investigative skills to work. If I could get a better handle on what happened, it would provide fodder for my editor’s column. But I was stopped before I could get within a hundred yards of the tanker. The police had established a yellow-tape perimeter to prevent bystanders, including scores of stranded motorists, from getting too close.

Rather than turn back, I realized this was an opportunity to find witnesses. I sauntered up to a young man wearing a New York Yankees cap.

You see what happened? I asked. You see what triggered this thing?

He shook his head. From the stubble and workman’s clothing, I guessed he was a repairman of some sort.

Not really. I wasn’t that far behind the truck, and the only thing I saw was the explosion. The shockwave almost rolled my pickup.

So no one cut off the tanker or cut in front of it?

"Not that I could see. I’m pretty