In Defense of Slowing Down at Accident Scenes--Hey, Same to You, Buddy!

A quarter of an hour ago you were tooling along the freeway on a sunny day, stereo blasting, breeze gently wafting, mind at ease. Now you’re inching forward in a sea of cars, minutes ticking by, a hot ball of rage rising in your chest.

Are they working on the stupid road again? No, it’s an accident. Someone has plowed into the concrete divider, there are ambulances and cop cars all over the place, and now you’re going to be late for your kid’s softball game.

But all this is happening on the other side of the freeway. The only reason you’re creeping along right now is the legion of looky-loos in front of you, whose feet must be hot-wired to their brakes. What is it with these people?

As a card-carrying member of the Spectator Slowing Set, I know what it’s like to feel the rage of fellow commuters--not to mention the irritation of the sternly beckoning Highway Patrol officer--as I cruise hesitantly past the crumpled metal and knots of dazed-looking people.

So why do I do it?

Because freeway accidents are one of life’s great, sad levelers. They tell us we are not invincible, no matter how much expensive horsepower and charisma on wheels we happen to own, no matter how young or attractive or promising we may be. On the contrary, these hunks of metal that house us are fragile containers for skin and bone. A split second’s poor judgment or inattention can tip us into a bleak parallel universe of crippling injury or death.

We’re all aware of this, of course, but in the same detached, media-numbed way that noncombatants visualize the atrocities of war, or armchair travelers imagine the hardships of trekking the Himalayas.

Pausing momentarily to allow the sudden carnage of an accident to register on the senses--even from the muffled distance of a car window--is a way of reconnecting with the humanity of fellow drivers, of recognizing our common fallibility and responsibility for one another. It’s a time to quickly remind yourself to be more vigilant, more thoughtful, even more grateful for all the crash-free miles you’ve already driven.

The Highway Patrol sometimes displays wrecked cars near freeway approaches on holiday weekends, in the apparent belief that the sight of these mangled metal hulks will scare people into driving more carefully. But they don’t carry the same chilling specificity of the actual event. As an art writer, I find myself thinking instead of John Chamberlain’s abstract sculptures made from crushed auto-body parts--about as far as you can get from the abrupt horror of a crash.

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When you survey an accident soon after it happens, on the other hand, you share its suddenness (“My God, I saw them just a moment ago”) and its venue (this lovely day, that tricky merging area). The damage is something that happens on your watch, in a random corner of your life.

And that’s why the valedictory moment of stopping and briefly reflecting is so important. (Go ahead and laugh, but when the situation looks particularly awful out there on the asphalt, I even turn down my radio. It seems wrong to be blasting a tune a few feet away from people who may be dying.)

Unless someone figures out how to suspend the laws of physics to allow two cars to occupy the same space at the same time, accidents will always be slowing us down. All I’m asking is a little understanding for those of us who feel compelled to survey the aftermath of deadly impacts while offering a tiny, private memorial service for those who suffer the waste and pain of freeway carnage.

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Cathy Curtis is a freelance writer based in Los Angeles. She covered visual arts for the Orange County edition of The Times from 1987 until March. She can be reached at highway1@latimes.com.