Halloween
is by nature a strange holiday, but this Halloween was stranger than most. First, because I attended a wedding, (yes,
wedding). And second, because I came
face-to-face with Milton Harshberger-- the most dangerous man in the world.
We met
completely by chance when I took a seat next to him at the airport. He was rubbing his way through a pile of
instant lottery tickets and nodded 'hello' as I sat down.
"Any
winners in that stack?", I asked.
"Probably
not.", he replied. "I'm not
very lucky." I told him that I used
to buy lottery tickets every other day, until I realized that I had better odds
of being struck by lightning.
"I
have.", he replied, matter-of-factly.
"What?", I asked.
"Hit the lottery?"
"No--
been struck by lightning.
Twice." He made the comment
in a disturbingly nonchalant way.
"The first time was in 1975.
I was watching my kids high school football game. It started to rain, so I put up my
umbrella. The bolt hit the tip, came out
through my left buttock and set the bleacher support on fire. Thirty-five people went to the hospital.
"And
you survived!?", I asked. "How
long were you hospitalized?"
"About
ten minutes.", he told me. "I
had a blister on my butt. They put some
salve on it and sent me home."
"The
second time", he continued, "was in '86 during 'Hands Across
America'. I was in Columbus, Ohio. We were standing there, holding hands and
singing when I got hit.
"How
badly were you hurt that time?", I asked-- astonished.
"Not a
scratch. But some guy in Wisconsin was
standing in a puddle..."
"And...??"
"Toast. I'm about due for another one", he
continued, "They seem to come about once every eleven years. Eleven is an unlucky number for me."
We were
sitting in the rows of molded plastic chairs that filled the end of the
concourse near Gates 10 through 14. Gate
11 was directly in front of us. I was
scheduled to depart from it at eleven-am on flight 1101. For a brief moment, I held the vain hope that
maybe-just-maybe, this spectacularly unlucky person was leaving from a
different gate on another flight.
"So
where ya' headed?", I asked hopefully.
"Chicago.",
he replied. "Going to a
wedding. A wedding-- on Halloween!-- can
you believe that?"
Slowly and
shakily, I pulled my invitation from my jacket pocket. "This one, by chance?", I
asked. When he pulled an identical
envelope from the pouch of his carry-on, I realized I had more to worry about
than just the flight.
"That's
great!", Milt exclaimed.
"Maybe we can split a cab to the hotel."
As we stood
to begin boarding, the bolts that held our row of seats to the wall popped
loose, throwing half a dozen people to the floor.
The flight
was one of the most turbulent I can remember.
We hit the first pocket just as the flight attendant was leaning over to
pour hot coffee into Milton's cup. It
ended up on the head of the lady in front of him.
Later,
someones carry-on bag got loose during a particularly violent jolt and went
sailing across the cabin-- straight for Milton's head. He sneezed just before the impact, jerking
his head downward into his handkerchief; his 'Achooo!' drowned-out by the
'Thud!' of the bag hitting the guy beside him.
Later, as
he struggled toward the forward bathroom, the nose of the plane dipped
violently, sending a dinner cart careening down the aisle after him. It was like watching something from an Indiana Jones movie: the unknowing Milton grasped the bathroom
door and pulled himself inside, just as the cart hurtled past.
It
continued through the first class compartment and was probably traveling at
more than thirty miles an hour when it struck the co-pilot, knocking him
unconscious.
As we
disembarked at O'Hare, he asked if I wanted to ride with him to the hotel. I lied and told him I already had one, which
was good, considering the severity of the accident his cab was involved in. Milt wasn't hurt, but he told me the
paramedics thought the driver would probably live.
We were
having this conversation in the hotel lobby.
I had showered, changed into my sweats and was heading out for a
run. The porter had pulled a cart-full
of Miltons luggage onto the elevator as I was getting off.
He was just
getting to the part about watching the med-evac helicopter land, when the
elevator doors slid closed. The porter,
stuck behind the luggage cart, had been unable to reach the button to hold it
open. A moment later, we heard a creak,
a cry and a crash, as the elevator plummeted to the basement.
With a
broken leg, cracked vertebrae, and fractured wrist, the porter got off easy
compared to most of the wedding guests.
After the
ceremony, as people were filing from the pews and making their way toward the
receiving line, one of the basilicas huge organ pipes came loose from its
moorings.
It was at
least thirty feet tall and fell like a tree, slowly at first, then faster--
directly toward Milton. He was facing
the other way, chatting with people in the pew behind him.
Milt would
have died, had the pipe not struck the pulpit first. The pulpit-- standing closer and much higher
than the pews below-- acted like the fulcrum of a gigantic see-saw, swinging
the top of the pipe steeply downward.
It's sharp metal edge shattered an empty pew just two rows in front of
him.
What had
been the motion of a falling tree was now that of a pole-vaulters pole. The base of the pipe rose to the
vertical. It teetered there for a
moment, then crashed onto the massive chandelier that hung over the crowd in
the middle of the sanctuary.
The wedding
made the network news that evening. More
than fifty people, including the bride, had been seriously injured. Milton got off without a scratch.
I spent
three days in the hospital. Although I
had narrowly missed the falling chandelier; and had been one of the lucky ones
on the flight home; I had made the mistake of accompanying Milt to the long
term parking lot.
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