Witness To A Wreck

Why the interest in a former stripper? The gaping and gawking resembles nothing more than a gaper's block on the highway, as motorists crawl past the scene and take a good long look at the mangled vehicles, searching for blood or broken bodies. Such fascination amidst the curiosity.

Anna Nicole Smith married a senile, decrepit old billionaire and caused a bit of a buzz when she pursued a portion of his estate. Now there's a story that intrigues us all. The gold digger, the vixen of tales since the beginning of time, was starring in a modern version of an ancient tale. Would you do it, for four hundred million dollars? That was the question that was put out for discussion over drinks after work. Ms. Smith gave us all something to talk about, to really gnaw on, for months.

With the financial windfall on hold, tied up in the courts, we were then treated to a so-called reality show that was like watching an ongoing train wreck. In episode after episode we could observe some bizarre creatures that were lifted from a Texas trailer park, providing a glimpse into a world that we had never before seen, and never would observe first hand. Like a motorist, we cruised past every week, taking in the scene, finding horror and shock and pity and an amalgam of mixed emotions. Bottom line, like the traffic accident, we drove past and said a silent prayer that it wasn't us in the mangled car, or laying on the gurney being shoved into the ambulance.

We could not get enough of the vicarious thrill, the desire to see more coupled with our mothers' admonishments to not stare at the freaks. Ever in search of attention, Ms. Smith delivered the goods, wrapping herself up in one scandal after another, and always with cameras close by to record the news.

Her son died, and our eyes were riveted to the gore at the scene of the wreck. One baby dead, another newly born, and another scandal as a man popped up and claimed that he was the father, while she insisted that the father was someone else altogether.

Now the vultures begin to circle over the corpse, the scent of money nearly overpowering. Where is the child, her mother is claiming custody of the estate, er, the infant. Who is the real father, the one to raise the baby and handle the financial legacy? Sure she was murdered by that attorney she married, some claim, and we can be amused by empty-headed discussions of conspiracies and plotting in the name of greed.

Over time, the evidence of the wreck will be cleaned up, and soon we will not really remember much about the accident that we witnessed. Maybe there'll be some note in the gossip column, a bit about the ongoing lawsuit to claim part of the billionaire's estate. Eventually, there will be another ongoing train wreck to divert our attention from the harsh realities of the world. And we will utter our silent prayer, thank God that it's not me or my family in there.