Crash Money N Hos

Yesterday morning, Al Qaeda finally put my life in danger. Granted, it took them almost five years to see any results. Basically, one of the lasting effects of September 11th is that I have a persistant fear of low-flying planes. I have difficulty concentrating when they fly overhead, I wake up in the night mistaking street cleaners for them, and when they fly directly at me like they did yesterday morning I tend to think they're going to crash into me. It's normally not a disruptive phobia. Incidentally, the only other phobia I've had that I recall is my quondam fear of other people's vomit. That was cured the night of the Gnocchi Incident, when Dave A and I accidentally got drunk while cooking, so drunk in fact that I attended four of Dave's vomits before I remembered to be phobic. Cured.

Anyway, yesterday, I experienced an unforseen consequence of my plane phobia, because at the moment when I became convinced that a low-flying plane was flying into me, I happened to be driving. As a result, I was distracted for several key seconds, and when I returned my eyes to the road I quickly realized that I was about to rear end the white pickup in front of me, which had stopped while I was busy confronting the face of evil.

I had rehearsed moments like this in my mind. Since I prefer the left-hand lane, I had mentally prepared myself to swerve onto the shoulder if I ever saw myself about to ram someone. When the big nanosecond arrived, however, my reflexes took over, and I swerved right, directly into the middle lane. Honestly, what the hell was my spinal column thinking? I had the fleeting thought "Well, it's finally happening, you're having an accident." The last time I had to say I had had an accident it was on the playground of Duzine Elementary School, and I was attempting to explain to the recess attendants why I was crying. They were puzzled my my delicacy, and one of them finally hazarded the guess, "You peed in your pants?" to which I miserably nodded, thinking that I had learned a new phrase.

What happened next is a testament to what good drivers Californians are, though not so much me. I think the person who hit me was already breaking, and probably swerving out of my way, too. I experienced a thud at the rear left-hand of the car, and became aware that the car was first moving forward and then turning. At this point my mind went blank except for a single thought: Fuck. I continued to think, though not to utter, the word "fuck" as I watched the horizon swerve away from me. Besides all the obvious reasons, I am glad the accident turned out no worse than it did, because I sincerely hope the last thoughts I have on earth are more appropriate than the F-word. The good California drivers must all have seen this happening and driven around it, because I wasn't hit again. I spun 540 degrees and wound up facing the wrong way on the shoulder. I was shaken, and feeling incredibly stupid, but otherwise no worse for wear. One of my first thoughts was that Jeff was going to send a big I Told You So my way. The car that hit me never stopped, so I had to assume its driver was okay. Or had drugs in the trunk I guess. If they had stopped, I would have apologized and thanked them.

Having weathered the accident, I devoted five to ten minutes to freaking out. It's not that it wasn't perfectly clear to me what I had to do. I was fine, I was pretty sure the car was fine, all that remained was to wait for a break in traffic and hang a u-ie back toward San Francisco. But I was feeling fragile, and needed someone to tell me it was okay to pull a u-turn on I-80. I put on the hazard lights, and attempted to call Michael. He is too dainty to leave his cell phone ringer on, so he did not pick up. My next call was to my dad. My mom picked up, which was for several reasons not the optimal scenario. The connection that we once shared via umbilical cord we now share through my mother's telepathic anxiety. The information on my current whereabouts and the configuration of my vehicle could have been developed by NASA to send my mom into orbit. The conversation went, I think, something like "I've just had an accident and I'm facing the wrong way on the freeway, can I talk to Dad?" It was hardly kind of me, but Trixie was a brick. I knew, simply cause I know her, that she was terrified, but she sounded nothing but stalwart on the phone, and immediately fetched my father. He told me what I already knew I had to do, though he added the advice that I should set my wheels ahead of time.

Pulling out was not really dangerous or hard, just humiliating. There was a big gap in traffic, and I managed it easily, but I had to endure the derisive honks of the oncoming cars. I tried to put myself in their place. Did they think I didn't see them? Did they think I was pulling out into six lanes of traffic cause I thought it was a good defensive driving technique? Anyway, I hadn't inspected the car yet, so I took the next exit and figured I would find a mechanic. Unfortunately, the exit I had chosen seemed to be underdeveloped wasteland abutting on a housing complex. After circling around for a while I pulled into the parking lot of the tenants office and got out to survey the damage. I couldn't see so much as a dent. I flashed onto Das Boot when the U-boat hits the sandy floor of the Strait of Gibraltar, and realizing that they are still alive, the captain says only, "This ship is amazing." I said it aloud, too, "This car is amazing." I felt extremely grateful to the men and women who engineered the Taurus.

In short, after consulting with my dad some more I drove the rest of the way to work, very slowly. I considered getting the tires checked, but in the end I couldn't believe anything was really wrong with it, and after work I drove on home. I made the round trip again today, so that's three and a half trips I've made crawling along at 70 miles per hour. It's maybe a little more relaxing, but I think Das Taurus has been patient long enough. After her loyalty and service to me in my hour of need, she's earned a little fun.