The smell of fried hot dogs was in the air, along with just a tinge of panic.

In the center of Route 4, a red station wagon sat by itself, not quite straight in its lane. With its odd angle and the bumper torn free, the car looked like something that had been shunned.

The driver was alone in his car, chatting on a cell phone, but people were coming. Knots of people moving toward the street like ants attracted to a dropped morsel. So tantalizing a thing is the highway wreck that even the draw of burgers and fries, clam baskets and milkshakes is not enough to keep us away.

It was dinner time in front of Roy’s All-Steak Hamburgers, and the crash was fresh. Dozens stood in stunned silence, alone or in little groups. The violence and suddenness of a car wreck has amazing power. It can render one man paralyzed while launching another into a kind of take-charge response he did not previously know he possessed.

An older man in khaki shorts was somewhere in between. He started across the dirt lot and then stopped. He started and then stopped again, unsure. When he reached the edge of Route 4, he remembered the phone in his pocket. You could almost see him remember.

He started to dial the three numbers. Sirens were wailing, mournful with distance, but he dialed anyway.

The machinery of emergency response was taking over. A football field away from the station wagon, a woman in a bright red SUV was being tended by a group of men. The sirens were growing louder. Things were Being Taken Care Of.

For the paralyzed, it was suddenly OK to move again. There was murmuring, then chattering and then an outright buzz.

“Holy crap,” a young woman said, tapping a hand to her chest. It was not the first time she would say it.

“It looks bad,” said one man.

“Doesn’t look too bad,” said another, 20 feet away.

“I’ve seen worse,” said a third.

The buzzing grew more dense. There was one firetruck, two firetrucks and then a whole bunch of police cars. It was OK to talk freely, and people did.

“I don’t know how that one ended up way down there,” a young man said, pointing to the SUV for the benefit of his girlfriend. “I think maybe she was disorientated.”

“Took forever for police to get here,” one girl groused, unaware of a fellow a short distance away who was praising the fast response.

Two women, perhaps in their 70s, were moving across the lot with arms linked at the elbow. One seemed reluctant to pull away from the scene of the wreck. The other couldn’t get away fast enough.

“I can’t see the person in that car,” the first woman said.

“You don’t need to see,” said the second, tugging at her friend like she was an unruly dog on a leash. “It’s got nothing to do with us, dear.”

“Holy crap,” said the chest-tapping girl.

A car crash is an almost one-of-a-kind glimpse into mundane mortality. When glass shatters and metal peels apart, the horrible truths about our own vulnerabilities are lain bare. For most, the scene is mesmerizing. But not so mesmerizing that the rest of life comes to a halt.

Along that stretch of Route 4, you could hear the squawk of police radios. You could hear the ominous chirps and cheeps of medical equipment. But there was also the flat drone of a high school girl calling numbers.

“No. 281,” she would call, seemingly unaware of the weird juxtaposition. “You’re order is ready.”

Another tray of hamburgers and onion rings carried away. A little boy stood nearby, licking an ice cream cone and goggling at the drama in the street.

Meanwhile, men with hands on hips peered out and mentally calculated. There are those who can’t resist. When cars collide and metal goes flying, they begin deducing even before the first scream is issued.

“THAT one was probably coming out of the parking lot,” said the man in khaki shorts. “And THAT one was coming north down Route 4. See how the front end of that one is mangled? But only the rear corner of that one?”

They are the CSI of the crash scene. Their deductions are frequently wrong.

All part of the machinery, that fascinated flock of humanity that descends on almost every crash that ever happens anywhere. But they are also fleeting. Mayhem can capture their attention only for so long. Then it’s back to their worlds of fast food, sunshine and near misses. It’s just another day at the hamburger stand.

“Are you going to have a hot dog?” the older woman asked her shaken friend. “Or a hamburger?”

The second woman cast one last assessing glance at the wreckage on the roadway.

“You know? Today, I think I’m going to have both.”

Mark LaFlamme is a Sun Journal staff writer. You can flock to his email address at [email protected].