When I was in high school, I went to my father asking for him to purchase me a car. He told me to go get a job, and if that was a successful endeavor, he’d then assist me in bringing this idea to fruition (that’s definitely not how he said it – just work with me). A used, economy car was his idea of a car. Anything with a sunroof was my idea of a car.
So, I went to work. During the summer months, I often worked 8 to 9 hour days either opening or closing the restaurant I was employed at with my (mostly) loyal colleagues. Chick-Fil-A in Northpark Mall was where my adventure began as a tax-paying American within this free enterprise system.
Usually when closing the store during summer evenings, my parents would be in bed when I made it home in my baby blue (with an aftermarket sunroof – that leaked) 1985 Mazda GLC LX. On one particular night, the saturation point of the night air had been exceeded to a point that such a heavy fog had formed throughout our ‘hood that you literally couldn’t see more than 20 or 30 feet in front of you.
Keep in mind that fog rarely forms here. And if it does, it doesn’t last long. Sometimes, it will envelope us during the early morning only to be burned off almost instantly via the sunrise.
But, this particular evening was different. Different than anything I’d ever seen or seen since.
I don’t remember if I even changed out of my polyester uniform and khaki slacks before venturing out into the night on my mother’s bike to explore the transformed landscape.
What I do remember were the street lights. Or the consumption of the street lights. That was the most amazing sight.
Street lights are usually set apart at somewhat regular intervals not necessarily by distance within developments but by quantity and distribution of lots. Within the era (and socioeconomic paradigm) that this particular neighborhood was developed, street lights were spaced monumental distances from each other. There had definitely been no attempt to uniformly light the streetscape. They simply served as high pressure sodium datums. And on this particular evening that was the case more so than ever before.
To see one of these fixtures blanketed by billions of tightly packed / suspended water droplets that went on forever in every direction was harrowing. I was accustomed to seeing light travel unencumbered through the atmosphere due to our air being clean and crisp. It’s either freshly washed by heavy rains or replenished via our almost constant southern breeze.
I knew the road network well. But, to turn a corner and NOT EVEN BE ABLE TO SEE the streetlight at the end of the road was stunning to me. So, I rode carefully down the center of the asphalt anticipating the reveal. Eventually, I’d end up slowing to a crawl about 50 feet out.
Light really isn’t until it’s reflected. I mean, it is, it’s just that it’s just a point source. Like looking up at a star. Once reflected though, it becomes so much more. It’s that reflected light that after finding itself on your macula becomes so orienting and usually familiar.
This was far from familiar. The lamp wasn’t even visible. All I could see at 50 feet was a massive glowing shroud that had no apparent symmetry. If you stared up into it, you’d eventually see it shift or contract. It was like watching an Independence Day balloon glow, but in reverse.
I remember not wanting to leave that place, so I lingered. What were the chances of witnessing something as uniquely remarkable as this? That question kept resurfacing within my mind.
Eventually, I rode back home after stopping briefly in the presence of every pillar of fire I could find. After taking a hot shower in hopes of removing the well dampened, chicken greasy stink that clung all over and throughout my flesh and hair, I slept well in my air conditioned bedroom.
