Yesterday, while I was driving to meet some friends for breakfast at IHOP, an ice pack on my left knee (which I had injured in an unnameable way when I stood up in a movie theater a few days earlier) my car “hit” something and spun out of control. As I was careening out of control and frantically trying to stop my car’s swerving, I cursed loudly in a way that would certainly make my Extremely Lutheran parents raise an eyebrow, convinced that I had caused this situation myself by hitting the wall on the side of the highway. It was the phone to blame, I was sure; the phone that had betrayed me by guiding me to the wrong IHOP. My quick second of looking at directions was my doom, and any second now I was going to hit another car and hurt someone, hurt myself, hurt everything.
I miraculously, did not hurt anyone else or anything, but came to a stop on the side of the highway, bumping the front right of my car into the wall with a sickening crunch. And then everything was dreadfully still as I stared ahead, shocked. The sound of the true crime podcast to which I had been listening played from the floor, where my phone had fallen in all the hubbub. I shakily picked it up and turned it off and called my husband, who was still at home sleeping in the bed I never should have left that morning. It took a few minutes to register that the strange yellow things in the corner of my eyes were the side airbags, now covering each front window. They never touched me and I never touched them until I crawled out from under them to the edge of the road; they hung uselessly, like especially hideous pool floats with a strange resemblance to cheese.
I don’t really remember what I said to John in that first call, as cars behind me honked irefully as they drove on by. I had had the good fortune to pull over immediately in front of a merge lane. I said things I can’t remember into the phone that had caused this whole mess to begin with as I started to sob, shakily turning on the hazard lights. I thought about moving up further out of the way of the merge lane, but it quickly became clear that my car was going nowhere; though the engine turned on, my tentative foot on the gas evoked nothing but a complaining roar. Carrying only my phone and my keys, I crawled over the drink holders and out the passenger side door in an effort to not be turned into the IHOP® pancakes I had so been looking forward to eating that day.
A white van was parked up a bit on the side of the lane – a man who certainly didn’t look like a murderer, despite his questionable choice of transportation, came walking up to me to ask if I was okay. He had been behind me and saw it all; he called the police. I never got his name. I should have got his name. How ungrateful a person must I be to never get his name. I hope I thanked him. I think I did. I tend to thank even people who are awful to me (a trait common in my Southern background), so it would be strangely out of character for me to do so. I texted my friend at IHOP to assure her I was alive and gave her my regrets; I could not imagine going and being around people after this. I wanted to go crawl in a hole full of blankets and cats and rest there until I was old and grey.
A crew of firefighters arrived soon and asked me if I was okay. I thought I was okay. Nothing seemed to hurt that hadn’t hurt before. They were so kind, so earnest in their tan and yellow uniforms. At least I think they were tan and yellow. It’s hard to remember because everything is sort of jumbled up in my brain from all the adrenaline and tears and the terrible feeling of guilt. They placed out orange cones around my poor injured Ford Escape; that, along with the bright red fire engine, finally stopped the chorus of annoyed honks from cars driving past.
One of the firefighters looked like Eddie Redmayne. If I had been in my right mind, I likely would have told him so; I have a habit of making pop culture references and awful jokes while nervous in an effort to alleviate all sorts of tension. I wonder what they thought when they saw me there, the green haired girl in the yellow polka dot shoes, by the bright green car with the RCHAEL license plate and copious bumper stickers with references to cats, Kermit the frog, Shakespeare, Harry Potter, Democratic candidates, and English queens. I had the bizarre thought that if my car was totaled, which I feared it might be, I would have to start my bumper sticker collection all over. My husband always avoids driving my car because he said the stickers are embarrassing. How strange it was that I did not have any bumper stickers representing where I went to school or law school; I should remedy this in the future.
I texted my parents to let them know what had happened and that I was okay, because as a very grown-up 31-year-old, I desperately wanted to see them and have them tell me all was well. They, sitting in their Sunday school class at church in Texas, were apparently surprised and alarmed, but in their usual unflappable way, avoided the use of any exclamation points in their response. My message to the 1.5 years and counting group chat of Shakespeare friends to let them know I would miss rehearsal later due to lack of car and needing to hide in a couch for the rest of my life was greeted with considerably more exclamation points and much sympathy. I once again felt incredibly grateful for my community of kindred nerd spirits.
As the firefighters stood uselessly around me, waiting for the state police to arrive, the unnamed witness wished me well and left. My law school education must have been absent at that time from my brain, strewn on the road like the pieces of my car, or I would have certainly asked his name, gotten his number, obtained his license plate, anything. I don’t even really remember what he looked like. I remember the firefighter who looked like Eddie Redmayne but I don’t remember the face of the man who actually could have helped me in my insurance claim.
Although my husband had reminded me to take photos of my car right away, I did not, only taking pictures with my mind. I could see into the black innards of the front corner of my car; a white-blue container of fluid was dripping slightly, but the firefighters didn’t ask me to move, so I assumed it must have been something fairly innocuous, and not something that would lead to a firey explosion of Hollywood death. They reminded me to take anything out of the car I would want in the next few days, as I was not likely to see it for a while once it was towed away. I crawled in and grabbed my purse, my cell phone charger, the peanut m&ms I had been snacking on beforehand, and my wedding veil, stuffed into a box in the backseat, ready to mail to a bride borrowing it as part of one of my grand schemes.
I went back to the side of the highway and stood there, feeling vaguely like some sort of twisted Mrs. Havisham, with my tears and shabby surroundings and my wedding veil in a box. An ambulance arrived but quickly drove past in what I can only assume was a drive-by examination. If they had stopped, perhaps I would have had to pay an exorbitantly large bill, even if there was nothing wrong with me (and there wasn’t, besides the sobbing jags). How fortunate that they did not stop and force me to confront the brokenness of the American health industry yet again.
I texted John and asked him to come; I needed him there. I asked the firefighters for my exact location, claiming my brain was too jumbled to remember, although really, my brain is a sieve for highway numbers and directions, and although I can get many places without directions, I could hardly ever communicate such directions to you in any sort of meaningful way, but it’s not like they needed to know quite how much of a spaz I really was at that exact moment in time.
A police officer arrived soon, at which point the firefighters left as quickly as they came; handing over custody of the whole mess, I guess. The officer offered a seat in his car for me; I accepted and walked back. My headlight cover stood nearby, sitting on the pavement like a giant’s contact lens. I gave my report and answered the questions numbly, no I couldn’t remember how fast I was driving at the time, yes, I somehow managed to not hit anyone.
The police officer got out to walk along the road and look for evidence of the initial impact; I sat there in his car and looked at the machinery, the equipment in the back, the video camera facing forward. I remembered my peanut m&ms and chewed on them slowly until he came back. There was no sign that I had hit any wall except the wall I had run up against at the end. This was confusing. What did it mean? It only occurred to me later while talking to my husband that I might not have hit anything at all; the car might have gone out of control due to a tire blowout instead. I was indignant when I heard this (I literally just got those tires replaced in January) but also strangely comforted; if it was the tire that was my doom, rather than the phone, than I could truly say that this was not my fault and not the result of my stupidity, instead of blaming it all humorously on an anthropomorphic device in an effort to displace my overwhelming feeling of despair and anger at myself. The officer gave me his card, told me what to do, said that since there was no damage to anyone or anything but my own car, he would not give me a ticket or charge me with anything. I nodded and tried to listen and take it all in. He joked a few times to try to comfort me.
John finally arrived and parked shortly after the tow truck arrived. Fortunately, he was there to get me and take me away; I had not wanted to sit in the tow truck with a stranger and try to make awkward small talk. Instead I saw John and started sobbing again. I asked for some Starbucks through tears, then changed my mind and wanted diner food, and then changed and went back to coffee, as I wanted to go home and cuddle my cats and not see anyone else ever again. John patiently listened to this all, telling me he would take me anywhere I wanted and get me anything there. His credit card would not work at Starbucks, so I had to pay for both of our drinks and my ridiculous pink heart cookie with sprinkles. One of the baristas was also named Rachel/Rachael and had green hair. I felt strangely comforted. Although my emotions felt like they had been torn and bedraggled, no one was not alive due to my misadventure, the world was still spinning on its axis, I was okay, and I was alive. And that would have to be enough for now.
