by Emily Maher
Life, as I knew it, was all over. If it wasn’t, I didn’t even want to deal with it after this, anyway.
There I sat on the curb, my face in my hands and the wet mist of a decapitated fire hydrant wafting over my hands and head. My car was to my left, straddling the curb on the far side of an intersection I crossed every day. Dark skid marks trailed behind it on the concrete.
To my right a crumpled, black Mazda truck stood silent. The driver had swerved onto the lawn of a neighbor’s house, where it hit the fire hydrant.
I do not drink, and I’ve never done drugs. As it turns out, I’m just that bad at driving my own car in my own neighborhood.
The whole fiasco began with this senseless horror flick that I watched with my girlfriend, Jenny. We couldn’t stop watching; it was so disturbing. Then when it was over, Jenny realized she was a half-hour late for her curfew.
Hurrying to get her home, I sped out of my familiar cul-de-sac. I was fiddling with the radio as I headed out. Suddenly Jenny shrieked my name. Right in front of the windshield, I saw the black Mazda, halfway through the intersection. I was driving too fast. There was no preventing the collision.
I slammed on the brakes, which flung both of us forward. My front fender banged the rear side of the truck bed, as I veered for the opposite curb. The impact sent the Mazda fishtailing into the center of the road, until it swerved off the street, colliding with a fire hydrant. The fire hydrant burst, spewing water all over the lawn, the road, and the crumpled black Mazda.
And there we were. I had just caused a car accident.
Finding myself unhurt, I reached toward Jenny and asked if she was injured. She pushed me away, yelling “I’m fine, I’m fine! Go find the man in the truck!”
Panic, guilt and, bewilderment registered in my brain, creating a swampy acrid taste in my mouth. What had I done?
The door of the Mazda creaked open. A man about my dad’s age but at least twice his size wriggled out from behind his inflated airbag. His face was red, and his eyes were bulging from their sockets.
I stumbled from my car, exuberant that he was relatively unscathed and yet totally disoriented that this accident had really happened to me.
We were but a few meters apart when the man began thundering a maelstrom of questions and accusations.
“What were you doing driving like that? Look at my truck! Just look, take a look at my truck! Where did you think you were going, driving like a maniac? What was going through your head?”
In this situation, I knew that I shouldn’t say anything, so I remained completely quiet. The same questions were running through my head: What had I been thinking? Had I even realized the possible consequences of my carelessness?
The driver of the truck began to cool down. He introduced himself and then used his cell phone to call the police.
Meekly, I asked if I could borrow his phone to call my parents.
He handed me the phone, adding, “Yes, I think you should let them know what happened before the police do.”
This was one of the more difficult phone calls I’ve ever made. When my father picked up the phone, his voice was groggy with sleep.
“Jason? Where are you?”
“Um, Dad, I’m really sorry. I have some bad news.”
“What happened? Where are you?”
“I got in a car accident. I’m about a block away from the house. No one was injured. I’m so sorry.”
At first the other end was silent.
“I’ll be there in ten minutes. I have to get dressed.”
After that was finished, I had just enough time to sit down on the curb, drop my forehead into my palms, and let my eyes blur as my brain attempted to absorb some of the shock. To me, driving seemed like an open road of new freedoms. Had the fact that I’m responsible for other peoples’ safety ever crossed my mind? I’d never really thought it through.
It was only a moment before the police arrived. The younger officer went to talk to the man by his Mazda, and the older officer approached me. Jenny got out of the car and joined me on the curb.
“So, son, what was going on tonight? Were you coming from a party?”
I didn’t want to break down in front of my girlfriend. I looked up at the officer. After taking a moment to collect myself, I could be relatively certain that my voice wouldn’t crack.
“No, officer, I was coming from my home.”
“Do you have your license and registration with you?”
The officer proceeded to ask me about the details of the accident. Before our conversation was over, my father was standing behind me, listening to my answers.
When the policeman finished questioning me, he acknowledged my father with a nod. “Is this your son?”
My father nodded slowly. I felt my stomach sink like a boulder in the ocean.
As the policeman began questioning Jenny, my father and I walked over to examine the car. He spoke in short serious sentences.
“No one was injured.”
I shook my head.
“You were very lucky.”
All the emotional restraint I had exercised collapsed under his stern gaze. “This was totally my fault, Dad. I can’t believe it. I should have been watching, I should have been in control. What happens now? Will they take my license? Are you going to take my car?”
Dad stared at the ground. His hand covered his mouth; he was thinking deeply.
“No,” he said, “The car insurance will go up, and you will get a ticket, but that’s not really the point, is it? This could have been much worse. And if you don’t learn from this, it probably will be.”
My face was pale and solemn. “I don’t know what to do.”
“Learn,” my dad said. “You’re only going to drive with me for a while, not alone. You’re going to learn, and re-learn, and re-learn.”
Standing next to my wounded car, Dad was telling me how to deal with life: learn. Again and again and again.
