Right at the last moment I knew I was in some sort of very deep yucky stuff. Up until then, I thought I could handle it. I thought I could steer out of the situation unscathed and go on my merry way.
That was right before my very own personal crap mobile, a 1993 Saturn Station Wagon, with 150-plus thousand miles on it, careened into a parked pickup truck for sale.
Yep, you might was well call me crash. I’ve heard it from everybody, even the so-called ‘friends? I play wallyball with every Thursday.
‘How’s it going, Crash??
‘I hope you’re not going to be on my team, Crash.?
‘Stay away from me, Crash.?
Thanks, Keith.
You’re a swell guy, Jeff.
Ha, ha, Jim.
Smackin? frackin, blizin? rizin.
Even the big guy himself, Mr. James ‘I’m Just Jottin?? Sherman, Sr., gave me a sly smile the morning after I let that nasty ol? ice spot mess up my day. He had something he was gonna? say, but I cut him off with, ‘I know, you’re gonna? call me Crash.?
He kept smiling. Maybe it wasn’t going to be ‘Crash,? but he had something up that big sleeve of his. I just knew it — cuz just like my cartoon hero Peter Parker (aka Spiderman) gets a funny feeling when things get dicey, so too was my spidy-sense was tingling. Or maybe I’m just getting paranoid.
Things were going smoothly for me that infamous day. Thursday, January 15, in the Year of Our Lord, Two Thousand and Four. Yep, I was tooling along to a Clarkston Area Chamber of Commerce luncheon from our Oxford office. As always when I drive from Oxford to Clarkston, I take Clarkston Road. I drive navigate all the curves past Eston and around Walters Lake and look up at the home I grew up in and eventually bought. I look up at 4925 Clarkston Road, have fond memories and drive on. I spent nearly 30 years in that home.
I know the roads like the back of my hand. I can tell you when this house was built or that. I . . . I made it to the curve on Clarkston Road at Clintonville and . . . and . . . looked at the car’s clock. 11:16 a.m. — plenty of time to make the 11:30 chamber meeting.
As Scooby Doo would say, ‘Rut-ro Raggy, ice.? Let off on the gas. Don’t brake, steer into the slide. Whoa, no, too much. Rats. Just hold on, Don, it’s gonna? be a bad ride.
Crash.
Nuts!
I was able to drive my car out of the snow bank I had somehow backed my way into, despite the passenger’s side of the Saturn being shattered. Rats. I wasn’t hurt. No blood. No bruises. No dangling appendages. I was fit as a fiddle. (Okay, maybe a cello or tuba.) Whatever the instrument of comparison, I was in as good of shape as I was before the Big Slide of 2004.
I reckon I could have tooled right on down the road and got while the getting was good. But that wouldn’t have not been too nice. I want the boys to be honest, so I guess I have to lead by example.
I called the coppers. I informed the homeowner and I called my dear wife Jen. The homeowner was nice (despite his understandable annoyance with the situation), Oakland County Deputy Osborne was nice (despite him scouring the countryside near Clarskton Road and Eston — where I had originally said I was) and Jen was nice (despite my crashing one of the family’s cars, thus putting the rest of the family in a financial and ride-sharing predicament). They all were understanding and glad I was okay.
Rats!
I just wish I’d cut myself some slack. I hate making mistakes. It turns my guts inside out. If only I had taken another route or let off the gas earlier or, or, or. You get the picture. I know accidents are called accidents, because, well they’re accidents and they happen. But, I hate it. I hate that I did it. It was my fault. Not the ice. Not God’s for putting the ice there. It was not fault of the Road Commission For Oakland County that is a bad curve even when dry.
#@&*#! I had so dearly wanted to get 200,000 miles on the Crap Mobile . . . maybe some baling wire and duct tape will fix it long enough . . . nah.
Comments for (and by the way, the next time you see him, that’s Mister Crash to you) Don can be e-mailed to: dontrushmedon@aol.com