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Elmwood By Christian Moreno

I really don’t remember any of it. All I remember was seeing the Jeepdriving towards me just feet away from where I was giving out a ticket to a driver of a semitruck on the Eisenhower express way. I talked to the medics who saved me about a year after the accident and they told me that they found me 50 feet away from where it hit me. I’ve always wanted to fly, but never in that sense. This happened in July of ’05. I was in a coma for about three months before I woke up. Took me almost five months to get out of the hospital. I’m forty-three years old and I’m going to be in a wheelchair for the rest of my life. More than twenty years of police work and it’s done in a flash. I’ve wanted to be a police officer my entire life. My father was an Illinois state trooper, my grandfather one too, and his father before him. Hell, even my son is currently in the academy dreaming to join the force in Chicago. My family’s blood is blue and it’s always been like that. I’ve always had luck on my side. I really can’t remember how many times things have turned great for me throughout my life. When I was in high school, I’ve had uncles and friends call me “Lucky Bob”. I’ve always hated that fucking name. It almost felt like voodoo in a way. I always thought they were jinxing me or however the hell you say it. While in the force, I’ve had enough near death experiences to fill a damn book with, so I guessI’ve always thought things would work out the way they were supposed to. Reading news articles about officers killed or injured on the job always intrigued me becausethey were the “unlucky” ones. Me on the other side, I’ve got God on my side. I’ve got me some good ‘ol luck. But as it turns out, luck has an expiration date.


Elmwood