the accident
by |
tags:
accidents,
apologies,
change,
parking lots,
redemption
|
1 comments
The woman I hit liked to write in ALL CAPS.
It happened as I was leaving the local grocery after an unsuccessful search for a good planner, and an equally unsuccessful run-in with an ex-boyfriend. He was sporting the same red cheeks that I had grown to loathe over the brief stint of our relationship, and after seeing them I thought immediately of the day in my dorm room when I rolled to my side after thirty minutes of listening to him yap incessantly about his inclination to return once again to the Eastern Orthodox Catholic Church and leave his angst-ridden agnostic ways behind. This ninety-degree rotation was done with the naïve hope that a catnap would make him grow bored and leave. Instead, he stayed, trying to sneak his fingers one by one like grains of sand in an hourglass to my right breast. How orthodox of him.
Continuing this veritable dance of body parts, I took my turn and feigned a mid-nap jolt, straightening my legs suddenly and arching my back severely. Perhaps I was falling off a cliff in the Grand Canyon or being electrocuted. I don’t know. To me, it didn’t matter if I plummeted to my death, eventually resembling old chewing gum that rests inextricable from the pavement, I was determined to brush his sweaty fingertips off of my side. And then I remember how, despite my repeated efforts to mimic the dead, he remained behind me like a shadow and whispered I love you, Savannah to my spinal column with slightly different inflections and cadences each time, some to evoke more sincerity, and others to create a more playful tone. Either way, I wanted to hurl (preferably on him), and found it increasingly more difficult to continue this act of sleeping. The truth of the matter was that after a toxic past relationship that consisted primarily of lies and a few dollops of deception, I was merely seeking air and attention. By no means did I desire to be smothered by a blanket with a penis. And by no means did I wish to take his virginity, either, and then end things after two months when I feared complete suffocation. But what would life be without getting fucked?
Anyway, after the encounter at the soft drinks and bottled waters section, I hurried out of the store, hackles up, sans planner but with migraine. I could think only of his stupid clammy hands and the terrible sounds his lips made when he licked them after expelling the word love all over my frame like a machine gun. I needed to get home. I walked anxiously toward the parking lot, and soon found my car sitting happily between a depressing, tomato colored mini-van and some bumper stickered Volvo, eager for my fingers to grasp the wheel and be driven. Sanctuary. Clutching the dark steering wheel with my fingers, I rotated my right wrist to start the car, and then immediately afterward made the fluid motion from keys to volume control, breathing in deeply as pitches and rhythms washed over me like a tidal wave. And then I was drowning. Air and rotten memories were sucked out of me as if each eighth note were part of a large vacuum. I sank deeper and deeper, and soon enough everything was replaced with water. Minor sevenths and thirds flooded my eardrums, and all of a sudden I was no longer in a dingy parking lot, but rather was floating in some kind of abyss. Now numb, my right foot released the brake, and I continued slowly, allowing my car to do most of the driving for me.
And then, crunch. I was catapulted from my swimming dream and hurled back to life, landing on some cigarette-butted and bottle-capped beach, sand in my nose and salt in my eyes. I smacked the volume button silent with the bottom of my palm and rushed out of my car. And there I found her, an old woman lying supine on the ground with gravel clinging to her kneecaps like leeches. Dream over.
Oh my god, I cried, rushing to her side. Are you OK? What a stupid question. Of course she wasn’t OK. She had just been groped by my bumper and then thrust carelessly to the concrete like a sexual assault victim.
However stricken she did appear, the good thing (if that so exists) was that there weren’t any cuts on her body. Despite the gravel and the car exhaust that blanketed her waif-like frame, she seemed to be fine. I quickly gave her my hand, praying that she wouldn’t grab it only to bite it off like a piranha.
Yes, I think so, she said. She placed her liver-spotted hand in mine, and I watched them closely as her phalanges began to flex rigidly against her paper-thin skin. For a moment, I was fearful that her most severe injury would occur only when I tried to help her up.
After establishing that she was essentially unmarred, I reached into my purse and scribbled all of my contact information onto the only piece of paper I could find: a gum wrapper. I had never been in this kind of situation before. What was I to write? Insurance information, my fondest condolences, my address so she could come to my house and kill me or my dog? I’m so sorry, I said, scrawling out the final digits of my driver’s license number. So what do we do now?
The woman shook her head at me like a horse’s tail does when flies get too close to its rear. Well, she began, I feel fine but I’m calling the cops. She had a New York accent, and when she said this I could see the dark lining on her gums that resembled power lines made droopy by years of perching pigeons and dangling tennis shoes. She had eyeliner on only one of her eyes, and squinted them so harshly that they became asterisks as she handed me her information. Angry and in block letters, I found out that my victim’s name was DOROTHY REICHART and that she lived three blocks away.
Do you think the police are really necessary, I asked.
I felt more and more like a fly with every passing moment. Of course they are, she squawked. You hit me in your little sports car.
I wanted to tell her that in addition to having all of my necessary information, the fact that she was both standing and able to be rude meant that there wasn’t much work left for the police to do. But I didn’t. I didn’t say anything. Instead, Dorothy yanked out her phone and began punching the buttons as if she were Muhammed Ali and they were Sonny Liston. I couldn’t concentrate. All of a sudden, I felt another wave begin to swell from within, this time covering my body with tears and an anxiety rash. Maybe it was because the authorities were on their way, and information on a wrapper wouldn’t suffice. Maybe it was that I couldn’t escape this time, or roll over on my side and pretend to sleep. I’ll never really know. Though before I was able to realize it, the wave peaked and I was out of control, and I soon began to release snotty sobs onto my new dress. I’m so sorry, I cried. I just didn’t know what the hell I was thinking, or why I wasn’t more careful. Dorothy looked at me, bony arms now crossed, and from the corner of my eyes I could see those familiar red cheeks making their way to a nearby car. They stopped in their tracks and faced me.
And that’s when I collapsed. No longer able to breathe, I fell to the floor like a wad of paper that just missed the wastebasket. For once, I wasn’t seeking attention or sympathy. From my crumpled state, I saw the feet that belonged to the cheeks pause for a few moments and then continue on their way. And then to my horror, I saw four more wheels and the flash of red and blue lights. I heard the click of a car door, and then saw not two, but four feet rush to my side. Soon, I felt Dorothy’s tiny hands cup my shoulders, and then felt the hot, smoky breath of the cop who was now squatting and looking into my face, and asking how badly I was hurt in the accident.
Sobbing, I said that I wasn’t the one who was hurt, that I did the hurting. The shocked officer looked to Dorothy, who at this point was rubbing her hands on my back and cooing that everything would be OK. And to my even bigger surprise, I let her hands stay. The cop looked to Dorothy and asked if she was fine. She said yes, that it was just an accident and that I wasn’t going fast at all.
Have you all exchanged contact information, he asked.
Dorothy nodded, responding for both of us. Seeing that I was still heaving and making a fool of myself on the concrete, the cop lingered for a few moments more and continued to kneel by my side. Listen, he said, accidents happen. Even to cops. I remember once I was on duty and accidentally hit another vehicle. Except this one was filled with an elderly couple and they weren’t as lucky as Ms. Reichart. There were ambulances and everything. He paused, and from my now clearer eyes, I could see him wince a bit. I didn’t mean to do it, he said, but you know…after stuff like this happens, there’s only so much you can do. Perhaps venturing too close to a part of his heart he preferred to keep a little more dusty and dark than the rest, he stood abruptly and brushed off the dirt from his knees. Look, he said, my point is that everything’s gonna be OK. You both are gonna walk away from this, and everything will be fine. OK?
I nodded, propping myself up with my now mascara-covered hands. Dorothy looked at me and smiled. He’s right, you know, she said. I’m fine. I’m not hurt, and I’m fine. She grasped my hands once more with her papier-mache ones, and smiled. Look, she said, I’m gonna go get my groceries now.
And then she flew off, leaving me to watch in silence as she made her way from the accident to the store. And instead of resembling a grim smoker from the city, I saw a slight, yellow-toothed angel. Sitting in my former sanctuary again, I clasped my steering wheel and began to drive.
It happened as I was leaving the local grocery after an unsuccessful search for a good planner, and an equally unsuccessful run-in with an ex-boyfriend. He was sporting the same red cheeks that I had grown to loathe over the brief stint of our relationship, and after seeing them I thought immediately of the day in my dorm room when I rolled to my side after thirty minutes of listening to him yap incessantly about his inclination to return once again to the Eastern Orthodox Catholic Church and leave his angst-ridden agnostic ways behind. This ninety-degree rotation was done with the naïve hope that a catnap would make him grow bored and leave. Instead, he stayed, trying to sneak his fingers one by one like grains of sand in an hourglass to my right breast. How orthodox of him.
Continuing this veritable dance of body parts, I took my turn and feigned a mid-nap jolt, straightening my legs suddenly and arching my back severely. Perhaps I was falling off a cliff in the Grand Canyon or being electrocuted. I don’t know. To me, it didn’t matter if I plummeted to my death, eventually resembling old chewing gum that rests inextricable from the pavement, I was determined to brush his sweaty fingertips off of my side. And then I remember how, despite my repeated efforts to mimic the dead, he remained behind me like a shadow and whispered I love you, Savannah to my spinal column with slightly different inflections and cadences each time, some to evoke more sincerity, and others to create a more playful tone. Either way, I wanted to hurl (preferably on him), and found it increasingly more difficult to continue this act of sleeping. The truth of the matter was that after a toxic past relationship that consisted primarily of lies and a few dollops of deception, I was merely seeking air and attention. By no means did I desire to be smothered by a blanket with a penis. And by no means did I wish to take his virginity, either, and then end things after two months when I feared complete suffocation. But what would life be without getting fucked?
Anyway, after the encounter at the soft drinks and bottled waters section, I hurried out of the store, hackles up, sans planner but with migraine. I could think only of his stupid clammy hands and the terrible sounds his lips made when he licked them after expelling the word love all over my frame like a machine gun. I needed to get home. I walked anxiously toward the parking lot, and soon found my car sitting happily between a depressing, tomato colored mini-van and some bumper stickered Volvo, eager for my fingers to grasp the wheel and be driven. Sanctuary. Clutching the dark steering wheel with my fingers, I rotated my right wrist to start the car, and then immediately afterward made the fluid motion from keys to volume control, breathing in deeply as pitches and rhythms washed over me like a tidal wave. And then I was drowning. Air and rotten memories were sucked out of me as if each eighth note were part of a large vacuum. I sank deeper and deeper, and soon enough everything was replaced with water. Minor sevenths and thirds flooded my eardrums, and all of a sudden I was no longer in a dingy parking lot, but rather was floating in some kind of abyss. Now numb, my right foot released the brake, and I continued slowly, allowing my car to do most of the driving for me.
And then, crunch. I was catapulted from my swimming dream and hurled back to life, landing on some cigarette-butted and bottle-capped beach, sand in my nose and salt in my eyes. I smacked the volume button silent with the bottom of my palm and rushed out of my car. And there I found her, an old woman lying supine on the ground with gravel clinging to her kneecaps like leeches. Dream over.
Oh my god, I cried, rushing to her side. Are you OK? What a stupid question. Of course she wasn’t OK. She had just been groped by my bumper and then thrust carelessly to the concrete like a sexual assault victim.
However stricken she did appear, the good thing (if that so exists) was that there weren’t any cuts on her body. Despite the gravel and the car exhaust that blanketed her waif-like frame, she seemed to be fine. I quickly gave her my hand, praying that she wouldn’t grab it only to bite it off like a piranha.
Yes, I think so, she said. She placed her liver-spotted hand in mine, and I watched them closely as her phalanges began to flex rigidly against her paper-thin skin. For a moment, I was fearful that her most severe injury would occur only when I tried to help her up.
After establishing that she was essentially unmarred, I reached into my purse and scribbled all of my contact information onto the only piece of paper I could find: a gum wrapper. I had never been in this kind of situation before. What was I to write? Insurance information, my fondest condolences, my address so she could come to my house and kill me or my dog? I’m so sorry, I said, scrawling out the final digits of my driver’s license number. So what do we do now?
The woman shook her head at me like a horse’s tail does when flies get too close to its rear. Well, she began, I feel fine but I’m calling the cops. She had a New York accent, and when she said this I could see the dark lining on her gums that resembled power lines made droopy by years of perching pigeons and dangling tennis shoes. She had eyeliner on only one of her eyes, and squinted them so harshly that they became asterisks as she handed me her information. Angry and in block letters, I found out that my victim’s name was DOROTHY REICHART and that she lived three blocks away.
Do you think the police are really necessary, I asked.
I felt more and more like a fly with every passing moment. Of course they are, she squawked. You hit me in your little sports car.
I wanted to tell her that in addition to having all of my necessary information, the fact that she was both standing and able to be rude meant that there wasn’t much work left for the police to do. But I didn’t. I didn’t say anything. Instead, Dorothy yanked out her phone and began punching the buttons as if she were Muhammed Ali and they were Sonny Liston. I couldn’t concentrate. All of a sudden, I felt another wave begin to swell from within, this time covering my body with tears and an anxiety rash. Maybe it was because the authorities were on their way, and information on a wrapper wouldn’t suffice. Maybe it was that I couldn’t escape this time, or roll over on my side and pretend to sleep. I’ll never really know. Though before I was able to realize it, the wave peaked and I was out of control, and I soon began to release snotty sobs onto my new dress. I’m so sorry, I cried. I just didn’t know what the hell I was thinking, or why I wasn’t more careful. Dorothy looked at me, bony arms now crossed, and from the corner of my eyes I could see those familiar red cheeks making their way to a nearby car. They stopped in their tracks and faced me.
And that’s when I collapsed. No longer able to breathe, I fell to the floor like a wad of paper that just missed the wastebasket. For once, I wasn’t seeking attention or sympathy. From my crumpled state, I saw the feet that belonged to the cheeks pause for a few moments and then continue on their way. And then to my horror, I saw four more wheels and the flash of red and blue lights. I heard the click of a car door, and then saw not two, but four feet rush to my side. Soon, I felt Dorothy’s tiny hands cup my shoulders, and then felt the hot, smoky breath of the cop who was now squatting and looking into my face, and asking how badly I was hurt in the accident.
Sobbing, I said that I wasn’t the one who was hurt, that I did the hurting. The shocked officer looked to Dorothy, who at this point was rubbing her hands on my back and cooing that everything would be OK. And to my even bigger surprise, I let her hands stay. The cop looked to Dorothy and asked if she was fine. She said yes, that it was just an accident and that I wasn’t going fast at all.
Have you all exchanged contact information, he asked.
Dorothy nodded, responding for both of us. Seeing that I was still heaving and making a fool of myself on the concrete, the cop lingered for a few moments more and continued to kneel by my side. Listen, he said, accidents happen. Even to cops. I remember once I was on duty and accidentally hit another vehicle. Except this one was filled with an elderly couple and they weren’t as lucky as Ms. Reichart. There were ambulances and everything. He paused, and from my now clearer eyes, I could see him wince a bit. I didn’t mean to do it, he said, but you know…after stuff like this happens, there’s only so much you can do. Perhaps venturing too close to a part of his heart he preferred to keep a little more dusty and dark than the rest, he stood abruptly and brushed off the dirt from his knees. Look, he said, my point is that everything’s gonna be OK. You both are gonna walk away from this, and everything will be fine. OK?
I nodded, propping myself up with my now mascara-covered hands. Dorothy looked at me and smiled. He’s right, you know, she said. I’m fine. I’m not hurt, and I’m fine. She grasped my hands once more with her papier-mache ones, and smiled. Look, she said, I’m gonna go get my groceries now.
And then she flew off, leaving me to watch in silence as she made her way from the accident to the store. And instead of resembling a grim smoker from the city, I saw a slight, yellow-toothed angel. Sitting in my former sanctuary again, I clasped my steering wheel and began to drive.
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