The tour guide’s voice boomed throughout the van speakers, “The Girl from Ipanema” by Brazilian singer Antonio Carlos Jobim playing.
“Tall and tan and young and lovely, the girl from Ipanema goes walking,” His black sequin vest and leather shoes sparkled under the glaring over-head interior light, laid over a long white shirt and black slacks.
A large black sprinter van sat stagnant on the city road heading towards the Richards Fashion Mall in Ipanema Beach, caught in a clump of mid-day traffic. All five passengers were seated behind the driver seats, aside from the tour guide who stood directly behind the equally-suited driver and was singing his heart out. Among the remaining were a middle-aged mother and father who were singing a raggedy vocal harmony, a son and his wife tucked embarrassed into their respective door corners, and a young daughter staring aimlessly out the side window.
The traffic jam began to dissolve after an eternity into stop-and-go movement . As the van continued forward at a snail’s pace, a panicked scene began to unfold in the young girl’s view. Ahead, emergency response vehicles blocked off one lane of traffic, attempting and failing to obscure a gruesome car crash. People were scattered around the scene, rushing about and looked to be yelling out to each other at times. As traffic crept forward, the view became more clear.
A small car was nearly flattened against a large, now bent, utility pole. People in scrubs rushed an injured woman on a stretcher into a small ambulance vehicle, while others in uniforms and plain clothes pulled another person from the crushed car. The body was visibly battered from the angle in view, a shoe missing and pant leg shredded. It was dragged from the car and laid just out of view behind a response car.
The van rolled forward slowly, just past the last service vehicle. A most gruesome moment appeared in an instant. The newly laid body sat parallel to another, this one missing the top of it’s head. The brains sprung outwards and a puddle of blood laid on the concrete. The young girl looked away, eyes void yet no expression.
“The girl named Sandra goes walkin’,” the father lightly grabbed the girl’s wrist and shook it in the air, attempting to bring her in on the ‘fun’. She smiled at him sweetly, glancing over at her brother whose face was buried into his jacket, fending off a headache. The young girl joined in on the singing, mostly just mouthing along with a slight delay after her parents sang the lyrics.
The black van continues forward under the highway tunnel, picking up speed and exiting traffic soon after. In a split second, the gruesome scene was forgotten and the young girl giddily anticipated the mall trip.
