The grimy cement block wall was twenty-five feet high by nearly four hundred feet long. Reinforced by massive steel beams and hidden beneath eighteen coats of badly weathered paint, it was illuminated by a series of ten five hundred watt bulbs equally spaced along the length of the wall at a height of about twenty feet. The words "Kawloski Heavy Machinery Company Ltd." had once been stenciled in the centre of the wall, but was now nearly indecipherable. Lower down, the words, "No Parking" were freshly painted and glowed brightly in the lights of Brent Galloway's stretch limousine.
Brent sat impassively behind the wheel contemplating the wall, his thoughts far from sober. The trip to his wife's home had been foolish. Stupid. The result of too much drink and an ache to see her again that was like a cancer in his soul. The idea had been to catch a glimpse of her, not to be seen by her. Not to make eye contact. Not to let her see the anguish he was feeling.
The wall was the northern-most face of the Kawloski factory which had been built in 1949, primarily for the manufacture of cement mixers to supply the post war boom. The road into the factory had originally ended at the wall, but as the industrial part had grown, the road had veered right at the entrance to the factory's parking lot and had continued south again once the plant had been skirted, aiming straight toward the centre of the city. As a consequence, the road to Kawlaoki Heavy Machinery had now become a little know alternate route for rush hour traffic.
Brent pushed open the car's door and lurched out into the evening's gloom. With exaggerated steadiness he walked into the glare of the headlights and laid his hands on the cold rugged surface of the wall. He was comforted by its solidity. There was an ugly meanness to it that seemed appropriate. The time was right for something hard and solid and reliable. Something with a history of endurance. His hands ran lovingly across the surface.
The Kawloski factory had undergone many changes since the late forties, but had finally succumbed to the vicious recession of the early nineties. It had been closed and abandoned since 1991 and now sat empty and silent. Waiting, perhaps for some final chapter in it's existence to be written.
Brent turned to look back along the length of the limousine, across the darkened parking lot and along the road leading up to it that ran straight off into the distance. If a car traveling that road failed to follow the road as it swung to the right at the factory entrance, it would then run directly into the parking lot. And if it crossed the parking lot it would end up right where Brent was parked. Of course, if such a car was traveling at speed and failed to brake in time, it would crash into the wall in a massive act of self destruction. The driver of such a car would be killed instantly. And if a very successful lawyer, like Garnet Chandler, for instance, who destained seat belts, was riding comfortably in the back of such a car, he would also become mangled corpse, a single terrifying instant later.
A driver would have to be insane to do such a thing. Driven out of him mind by grief, perhaps over the loss of his family and his career. Or stoned out of his mind on alcohol. Or both. Brent pulled his bottle of whiskey out of his pocket and drank. Deeply.
Such a crash would be spectacular, he thought, reaching a hand out toward the wall to steady himself, just like something out of the movies.
Click here for "Hitting The Wall" part 4
(C) B.E. Fraser, 1997 No copying of this material without the expressed permission of the author is permitted.
