COLUMN: Well, Hello Dolly.

I don't believe in fate -- at least, I don't THINK I do. I'm no longer 100% certain, and now I'm afraid to fully upset her, should she exist.

I'm no horror movie buff, so I confess I've only seen a few clips of the "Final Destination" film series. I might be wrong, but I think every movie starts with some kind of horrifying calamity wherein a group of friends somehow manage to cheat death and miraculously avoid a terrible fate. This causes Death, or Fate, or whatever supernatural force-du-jour that controls our destinies, to spend the rest of the movie slowly killing them all in retribution via a series of freakish accidents that certainly can't be coincidental. As I understand the film franchise, it's mostly just a nifty way to spend your money watching teenagers get gruesomely slaughtered while making you too scared to leave home without fear that anyone and anything could send you to an early grave. Sounds like a great time.

Except now I'm worried I'm in the next installment. I may have cheated death a couple days ago. Let's hope he doesn't hold a grudge.

I was heading back to the office from lunch and about to cross the Centennial Bridge downtown. Anyone who travels this route knows that 15th St. in Rock Island is presently a slalom course of potholes, construction crews and roadwork. As I made the turn onto 15th St., I found myself behind a rickety old hauling truck that appeared to also be heading towards Davenport. On any normal day, I wouldn't have given this truck a second's thought. Usually when I'm in my car, my brain's thinking about work, or thinking about this column, or thinking about absolutely nothing whilst internally rocking out to whatever's thumping out my stereo.

But on THIS particular afternoon, things registered with me for a change. This truck was in such bad shape, I'm pretty sure a stiff wind could've torn it apart like a clown car at a circus. We were on flat ground and this truck was already belching black smoke and making a terrible racket. In two blocks, it would be heading up the bridge incline, and likely doing so in a first-gear, Little-Engine-That-Could sort of scenario. I figured it was in my best interest to change lanes. Spoiler alert: it was.

Roughly four seconds later, that truck hit a pothole. It did NOT fall apart like a clown car. Instead, the back door of the truck burst open, and before I could even register an "eep!", a two-wheeled metal moving dolly came flying out the back, crashing to the ground below. Had it happened four seconds prior, I'm pretty sure it would have landed directly on my front windshield.

I'm no expert in physics, nor am I qualified to speak on the structural integrity and fortitude of the windshields provided by the Hyundai Motor Company. Ergo, I can't definitively state as to whether or not that falling dolly would have taken my head off. I'm fairly confident, however, that it would've stung a bit at the very least.

Thankfully, the car that had been behind me before I changed lanes was still far enough back to slam on his brakes and avoid calamity, and credit to everyone behind HIM for not causing a pile-up. The driver of the truck, meanwhile, was perfectly oblivious to the fact that his life's possessions were tumbling down 15th St., so I honked and waved and clued him in before he left a trail of detritus across the Mississippi River.

Adter that, there was nothing left to do but continue back to work while having a mild freakout at just how close my lunch hour almost became my curtain call. If you were one of the half dozen friends and family I called in a panic, breathlessly chanting "HI-I-ALMOST-JUST-DIED," I apologize -- my adrenaline system was in full control at that point. But it WAS pretty darn scary, and I was pretty darn lucky that I didn't end up the proud owner of a slightly used Korean pancake.

In a way, I feel cheated. If you can call this a near-death experience, I thought they were supposed to be transformative events. I didn't have a spiritual awakening. My life didn't flash before my eyes. I'm pretty sure all I did was go a little bug-eyed and make a noise like, "Whoooarpf!" That's not the kind of meaningful closing act people write books about. I've never seen "whoooarpf" on anyone's list of famous last words.

Maybe I'm blowing this whole episode out of proportion. Maybe the dolly would have just dented my car and caused me to have a very bad day. But honestly, it's just another notch in these less-than-terrific past few months. I've lost friends I cared about. I had MY first major health scare. This past year has put things into a perspective I've never taken the time to dwell on.

I'm not intelligent or poetic enough to offer any deep insight you haven't heard before, but: life's short, people. Why hate your neighbor when hand trucks could fall on your head at any given second? I'm tired of people fighting. I'm tired of the bickering. I'm tired of seeing nothing but bad news, bad attitudes, and bad vibes. Even the guy who almost brain-beaned me gave me a sneer until I told him he was leaving a sizeable trail of metallic bread crumbs all along 15th Street. I know there's not an easy answer that's going to fix our world, but I'm sure hoping some summer sun might help at the very least.

So what do I do now? Pretend I've got some cosmic new insight on life? Attempt to offer some kind of sagely wisdom just because I almost took a hand truck to the head? Nah. I'm less than qualified for such nonsense.

Instead, I'm just going to thank my lucky stars that I didn't get to be the lone participant in this especially avant-garde interactive staging of "Hello, Dolly!" I'm going to keep trying to survive in this increasingly weird world. And most of all, I'm going to be especially grateful that "Final Destination" is just a movie... I hope.