Tuesday was an eventful day.
Michael was tested for a higher class level in his swimming lessons. During his normal class, the director (we kindly refer to her as “The Lunch Lady”* in regard to her booming voice, clipboard and constant patrolling around the edge of the pool during lessons) asked Michael’s instructor to let him go into the deep end to see if he can do the basic freestyle stroke (using his side-breathing skills) all the way across the length of the pool.
While the drill instructor shouted commands at him, he pushed himself all the way across, executing every arm stroke and head turn and leg kick with a precision that would rival that of any professional swimmer. It was one of my proudest moments. He reached the far end, and was drilled back again. His mom and I practically glowed with excitement and pride, seeing our little boy perform so amazingly.
After jotting a few notes down on her clipboard, the director came over to us and suggested that we move him up to the level 3 class. After class, while his mom worked out the logistics for getting him into the higher level, I walked Michael to the showers and told him how proud we are of him. He chalked his performance up to the goggles they let him wear (up to now, we’ve avoided them).
“I can see, daddy! I can see everything! Now I know where to go!” He said, excitedly. Evidently it’s been his underwater myopia that’s been holding him back. Well if that’s all it takes for him to get a shot at the Olympic gold, then goggles he shall have.
He opted to ride home with his mom after class. We often take separate cars as his mom drives to swimming lessons straight from her work, while I am driving him there from home. It’s a necessary evil, but it allows us both to be there.
It was dark and rainy. I was hungry; we usually don’t have dinner before we go, since mom isn’t there and there isn’t enough time between when I get home from work and when we have to dash off to the pool.
Halfway home. I was following my wife’s car as best I could, allowing only one car between us. Slowing to a stop now. Boy that roast is going to taste —
WHAM!
Out of nowhere, a hard impact from behind. My car lunges forward as my glasses fly off my face and onto the floor, along with my hands-free phone speaker. After a moment, I gather my wits and turn on my hazard lights. The phone rings. From somewhere on the floor, my wife’s anxious voice cries out: “Honey? Are you okay? What happened?”
“I got hit. I don’t know. I think I’m okay…” I fumble around for the thing in the darkness, feeling the lenses of my glasses at my feet.
“Are you sure? Did you check? I’m pulling around and we’re going to park…”
“Okay. I have to call 911. I gotta go,” I said.
“Okay. Love you!”
I press the numbers into the phone and wait. Nothing happens. Oh yeah, the “talk” button…
“If this is an emergency, say ‘emergency’” the automated voice instructs.
“EMERGENCY!” I say, rather annoyed. Why else would I call? Weather forecast? Potato baking instructions? Maybe they do that to prevent the inadvertent butt-dial from causing havoc at the 911 dispatch. Still, it might prove troublesome if one was calling to report a home invasion or something.
Finally a human comes on the line, and I provide as much detail as I can, while exiting the car and looking around. My van’s back end is pushed in, the bumper torn, the rear quarter panels bulging slightly. The tail light lenses are intact, as is the rear window.
The car behind me is utterly devastated; crumpled like a cheap beer can. Glass, plastic and odd nuts and bolts and brackets are scattered around on the pavement. The hood is pancaked toward the passenger compartment, the engine is sitting on the ground. The front wheels are canted at different angles. His car will not drive again.
There’s no sign of the driver, though his airbag has already inflated and deflated. A passing motorist stops to set out flares. That done, she smiles and leaves. I’m still wrapping my brain around the whole incident.
Then, the other driver walks up. He’d been setting flares further back behind the scene.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
“I think so. What happened?” I asked him.
“I just looked down for a second. I just didn’t see you there.”
“Not a good night for looking down. It’s dark, it’s rainy, it’s hard to see even when you are paying good attention,” I returned.
“Is there anyone else in the van?”
“No, just me.”
“When I saw the stickers on the back of your car, my heart just sunk.”
We have the little happy family stickers on the back window; they’re all wearing mouse ears. We were determined to have Disneyland “bling” for the car after our last trip. He probably assumed that I had my wife and four kids in the car with me.
Pretty soon Michael and his mom showed up on the other side of the street. The fire engines quickly appeared, followed by a police car. I carefully crossed traffic to stand by my wife.
“Are you okay?” she asked again.
“Yeah. Nothing broken I think. I feel all right.”
“Oooh, your head! You got cut!”
I only saw later that I had a nifty cut on my forehead. Evidently during the impact it was my skull that had knocked the Bluetooth device off the visor. There was just a bit of blood; enough to prove that trauma had occurred but not enough to qualify as “gore”.
The firemen checked out the car for leaking fluids and potential explosions, then started cleaning up the road. They suggested I pull my van into a parking lot nearby, which I did. My van was still drivable, and despite the fact that the rear end was pushed in and the bumper torn up, all the lights worked just fine.
They managed to push the other driver’s car into the same parking lot, and the police officer pulled in next to us.
I asked my wife “Are you sure you don’t want to just go? I’ll be okay. You both need to eat dinner.”
“No, I want to stay,” she said. Michael was not complaining. He was mesmerized by all of the flashing lights on the various emergency vehicles.
So the other driver and I stood in the rain. I opened up the van’s battered tail gate and offered the other driver a dry spot to sit.
He thanked me for being so kind.
“It’s okay. I’m sure you weren’t looking to run into any one tonight,” I said.
“True. This isn’t the best night.”
“But statistically speaking, you probably won’t be in any more accidents for a while,” I offered.
The officer took down our info, listened to our stories, and cited the other driver for inattentive driving.
“When there’s a crash – and we always call it a “crash” and not an accident; crashes are preventable – we have to issue a citation. It was clearly caused by your inattentive driving,” she said. “We all do it. But this time it caused a lot of damage. You’re lucky it wasn’t a lot worse,” she said, handing him the ticket.
I felt bad for the poor guy. His car was totaled, he probably will end up paying off a huge deductable while not driving for a while, and he has to appear in court to pay a fine.
It’s a lesson for him. A very hard lesson. How one little careless moment can have such an impact. One that could have a very lasting set of consequences.
Hopefully he’ll learn from it.
* Note: no offense is implied or intended to any lunch ladies, real or fictional.
