Andy Young
Some days it just doesn’t pay to get out of bed.
Not long ago I thought I’d leave school a little early. I had never previously violated the policy requiring faculty to sign out when departing before 2:45, but just this once I figured I’d escape without notifying the principal. I didn’t have a class last block, and I wanted to run some errands in the lower Sport Hill section of town before some predicted heavy downpours arrived. I asked my friend Chris if he wanted to come along, but he declined.
Going out the back way rather than via the lengthy, serpentine driveway in front of the school which lies in plain view of the administrative offices, I headed south on Black Rock Turnpike. But there were ominous clouds overhead, and shortly after I took off miniature water droplets began accumulating on my green Honda Civic’s windshield. Blackening skies made it look like midnight, even though the dashboard clock read 1:45 PM. On top of that, a large black car was following mine far too closely. When I took a left onto Route 136 it did too, and four miles later it tailgated me onto Route 59. The already miniscule distance between our vehicles shrank as the rain increased in intensity. Trying to shake the unnecessarily aggressive driver behind me, who was now flashing her high beams on and off, I took a left onto little-traveled Gate Ridge Road, even though it was out of my way.
The driver behind me followed suit. When I stopped for a red light at Virginia Drive, the black car pulled within millimeters of my rear bumper, honking the horn madly. That’s when the skies really opened up. The ensuing deluge rendered both my front and rear windshields virtually opaque, despite my turning the wipers to warp speed. I was planning on continuing straight when the light changed, but seeing no turn signal from the car behind me, I decided enough was enough. On the green light I quickly flipped on my signal light and began turning left.
A split second later I felt the impact. Fortunately, I was able to get my wounded vehicle onto the shoulder and out of harm’s way. Killing the ignition, I got out to inspect the damage.
The brief, violent cloudburst had abated somewhat, so I got far less soaked than I would have moments earlier, but at that particular moment it was hard to feel lucky. The rear left side door was caved in, and the lower part of the gash revealed some extensive rust. However, there wasn’t much time to process the extent of the wreckage, because seconds later I was verbally assaulted by an older woman who, even though she clearly weighed less than 100 pounds, was far more pugnacious and abrasive than she was frail and diminutive. Hurling high-decibel, vile invective at me, she demanded to see my registration and insurance documents, which I assumed were in the glove compartment. But unfortunately, I was unable to locate either amongst the pencils, postcards, paper clips, keys, library cards, spare change, and other detritus housed there. The exasperated woman handed me a three-by-five index card and spat, “Write your phone number here!” I meekly replied, “Fine. May I have yours?” With barely concealed contempt she handed me a second blank index card with a penny scotch-taped to it. “There’s nothing here,” I observed. Her indignant response, delivered through clenched teeth and with loathing dripping from every syllable: “Good god…stupid AND blind! Look at the penny!!!” Bringing it closer I saw, etched in a tiny semi-circle around Abe Lincoln’s head, a ten-digit (yes, she included the area code) phone number. “Call me when you find your insurance cards, Dimwit!” she hissed.
Flashers on, I limped the three miles home. Once there I immediately headed for the cellar file cabinet to look for my proof of insurance.
The basement was flooded.
As I shook my head I began to see things with more clarity.
The school where I currently teach isn’t located off Black Rock Turnpike. (The one I attended over four decades ago is, though.) Chris is indeed a friend of mine, but he and I haven’t worked together in nearly twenty years. There’s no traffic light at the corner of Gate Ridge Road and Virginia Drive. I’ve never owned nor driven a green Honda Civic.
Sometimes it really is hard to get out of bed, but this wasn’t one of those occasions. Realizing the entire hellish scenario I had been sweating out was merely a strange, disquieting nightmare made greeting that morning’s reality a combination of gratitude, pleasure, and pure relief.
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