My Car Accident

Yes, I deliberately chose such a jarring title to get you to read my post. A right little bitch, aren't I?

But, I really did have a car accident. It was very stupid and unglamorous, as are most things I do.

It happened at 9:20am yesterday, as I was pulling out of a Dunkin' Donuts drive-through. That's how unglamorous this shit was. It wasn't even Starbucks, and I was too disgusted with life afterwards to even eat the shitty bagel sandwich I got. I did, though, drink the coffee-- out of chemical necessity. But I didn't enjoy it.

I was attempting to make a left turn when my car made contact (that's what people say when they're reluctant to admit culpability-- I "made contact"-- remember that when [God forbid] it's your turn) with a red Infiniti G-35 Coupe. Although I don't really remember exactly, I'm pretty sure I uttered the phrase, "Oh, shit" in the instant before we hit which, according to the National Transportation Safety Board aviation accident investigation is the most common utterance made by pilots on the Cockpit Voice Recorder the instant before, well, they die.

Fortunately, my obscenity wasn't recorded for posterity, and, fortunately, I didn't die.

Fortunately, the other driver didn't die either. Being a highly-trained EMT (only one of those statements is true) I immediately got out of the car (violating the first rule of car accident protocol) to see if the other driver was okay. She was. She was tall and blonde and skinny, but I'm married and this wasn't a date. We pulled our cars out of rush hour traffic, exchanged insurance information (quoth she, "What am I supposed to write down? I don't even know.") So I helped her out. I also took pictures of the damage to both cars, and even emailed the pictures of her car to her from my phone.

Aren't I a good boy?

We were both amicable to each other and regretful that the incident happened, and the suburban police officer who responded to my call was also amicable. However, he informed us that this was a city matter, because of the way our cars were facing (isn't beauracracy beautiful?). He also stated that having a police officer present wasn't necessary in this state and that we shouldn't bother waiting for a Philly officer, as it would "take an hour, if they show up at all," which was comforting. The driver of the other vehicle and I agreed that it wasn't worth it to wait around in the pouring, freezing rain, and so we left to go report everything to our respective insurance agencies.

I smacked up her car pretty good, I'll say that. My car's bumper kind of looks like it got mouth-fucked with a cheese-grater.

The insurance agent who handled my claim over the phone was an Irish gentleman, and his accent reminded me of the last time I had spoken to an Irish person on the phone. It was back in 1996 and my computer had crashed (apparently, Irish people and crashes enter my life at the same time) and the IBM call-center routed my call to a call processing center in Dublin. My plea for assistance was answered by a woman named Nieve, whose voice was like a symphony to my vulgar, American ears. I briefly considered playing with myself while she read out the reboot instructions to me over the phone in her delectable little lilt, but I was far too distressed about the computer to get it up.

I mean, maybe I could have. We'll never know.

After two-and-a-half hours on the phone with Nieve, and the computer successfully restored (my father still uses this very machine to access his work emails from home, which he checks via his dial-up modem using, yes, Prodigy.net) Nieve congratulated me on my persistence and suggested that I "go 'round the pub and get a pint."

Though I was only sixteen at the time, I wanted one bad, but only if she were on the barstool next to me.

I probably could have used one today, too, but I still don't drink.

The coffee, however, helped and, as I guzzled it down after I arrived at work this morning, I mused about how my body's need for this soothing, sweet liquid was the catalyst for the accident in the first place, and about how I had the accident not fifteen seconds after the Indian man in the bright orange shirt said, "Have a good day, my brother" to me.

My brother: it was not to be.