By
Tom
“cruise control freak” Waters
June 1, 2002
Automotively, this last summer was the worst summer I have ever had.
That anybody in my family has had, for that matter. Where to begin?
As for the rest of my family, their misfortunes sound cartoonish and
surreal; certainly nothing that could happen to an average motorist!
My little brother rear-ended an eighty year old woman and her nurse’s
aid on the way to work. What are the odds of that one? My mom (the god-fearing
member of the family) was holding her weekly prayer meeting at the house
when one of the blue-haired ladies who holds court for these shin-digs
backed her minivan into my mom’s car, which in turn went sailing in
the garage and slammed into my dad’s ‘77 powder blue Chevelle. He would
sooner see his first born child’s arm sheared off before allowing any
harm to befall that car. And then there’s me. Between June and August,
we all got really familiar with mechanics, insurance companies, and
on occasion, the long arm of the law. Welcome to my nightmare.
In the first blush of summer, I went to my friend Dave’s bachelor party.
They’d taken out a private suite at the baseball park for drinks and
debauchery. When I got there at three, the party was already well under
way. Card games, old men smoking cigars and laughing about the stock
market, and frat boys slapping each other on the back, funneling beers
into each other’s mouths. We consumed about three kegs of beers, two
trays of roast beef, five pizzas (with the works), pizza fingers, chicken
wings, nachos, chips, dip, and enough cigars and cigarettes to re-pave
the parking lot to the stadium. I can’t stand baseball games because
they’re boring, but nobody was watching the game anyways. By eight o’clock,
after the game was over and last call was announced, we made a mass
exodus to the brewery down the street where a row of pool tables and
an infinite tab were waiting. The sight of us all was preposterous.
Thirty to forty burly grown men stumbling down the street together with
novelty-sized baseball bats howling, singing, and swearing like sailors.
At the bar, I’d swindled my old boss out of forty dollars in a few
fast games of eight ball. The groom was holding the bar up as best as
he could while everybody in the establishment was doing shots with him.
A few hours elapsed. By about ten, I was exhausted from the day’s events,
and decided to take a quite rest on one of the benches. It seemed like
a good idea at the time. While I was napping, the best man took a picture
of me snoozing, half on and half off of the bench, gut hanging out of
my shirt, and hair sticking every which way but down. By about midnight,
I woke up, refreshed, and decided to go home before causing any more
harm to my internal organs.
It was a long drive home. I’m not very good with directions downtown,
there was a food festival going on, and when I get lost, I usually drive
obstinately until I find a street that I recognize. Did I mention that
I’d been driving on a donut for three weeks prior to this bachelor party?
No? Well I had been. This isn’t really a good idea, in case you didn’t
know. Thanks to the wonderful roadwork that’s going on indefinitely
throughout my fair city, the donut blew. Then it wrapped around the
back of my car axle. I rode half of the way home on the rim of the axle,
spitting sparks and bumping up and down in the car like I was on the
teacups at Disney World. A logical man would have called a tow truck.
I am not a logical man. I just wanted to get home. It had been a long
day, andI figured I was more than half way there anyways.
When I was ten minutes from home, I got stopped by a police car. He
was a nice guy, and he asked me to go across the street to call a tow
truck. I followed his advice. After watching him drive away, I set out
for home again. Barely two minutes away from my house I got stopped
AGAIN! Clearly, my luck had run out. I got a ticket for going 55 in
a 35 with a flat tire. The cop was so nice to me that he let me gather
my things and chauffeured me home. Cost of bachelor party ticket? $50.
Cost of total repairs to the car? $350. The expense of a really good
anecdote? Priceless. I lucked out with the town court, and ended up
with a traffic school appointment, but that’s down the road.
In late July, I went to a birthday party at a friend’s. I’ve had to
tell this story about forty times, so I’ll give you the nutshell version.
It was a great time; we had steamed clams near a bonfire and all of
my old comrades were in attendance. Upon leaving the party, I decided
to go downtown, for reasons I’d rather not disclose. But on the way
back, I noticed a flat tire. Rather than go back onto the thruway, I
took a side road to investigate the matter. Having just watched someone
change my tire a week or two before that, I figured I was ready for
the hands-on experience. And after ten minutes of prying, swearing,
and exerting myself (in the rain, mind you), I couldn’t get the goddamned
jack off of that stupid holy trinity of tire changing that they put
in my Dodge. It’s some sort of tire jack/tire/crowbar combo that’s about
as relenting as a Chinese finger trap. At two in the morning, I gave
up and walked to a phone to call a tow truck. In one of the worst neighborhoods
in downtown Buffalo. I hadn’t been there before, and I certainly won’t
be going back anytime soon.
After calling a truck, I walked the block or so back to the car. Or
where it was when I left it. The Dodge wasn’t there. The Dodge wasn’t
there! I wigged out, then tried to make sense of it. Perhaps by some
spatial fluke, it was transported to the Dark Ages ala “Army Of Darkness.”
No, that wasn’t it, the car was stolen. Somebody had taken my car. And
yes, the keys were in the car. I’m an idiot, no disputing that, and
I have no common sense to speak of. I looked around the block. There
were a whole bunch of unsavory characters out and about past the witching
hour, and they all looked capable of folding my vehicle into their back
pocket and walking past me on the sidewalk without so much as a sideways
glance. Upset and befuddled, I walked around for a while, chain smoking
cigarettes and wondering how far this thief could’ve gotten on a flat
tire. Far enough would be the appropriate punch line.I was the only
well-bathed white male with all of my original teeth walking around
this section of town at four in the morning. Everyone else was either
on crack, strolling around with a 40 in a paper bag, or drumming up
other business propositions that I didn’t even want to know about. I
had no idea what the hell I was going to do. I remembered calling my
dad in the fifth grade after my bike had been stolen from the mall in
the bushes next to Woolworths. After telling him that it wasn’t locked,
he said “Good!” and that was basically the end of the conversation.
At one point, near dawn, I considered taking all of my money out of
a cash machine and leaving town. That wouldn’t solve anything though,
other than having to deal with my parents. I did a lot of thinking that
afternoon by the waterfront, and smoked more cigarettes. My car had
been stolen. Something had to be done. I was going to have to go home
eventually. I called the police to report the theft, and they stopped
for about three minutes on the way to another matter, laughed at me
when I couldn’t tell them what my dad’s birth date was (he was the legal
owner of the car), and then drove off after giving me the station address
where I could file a report. Super. I called my dad finally, and he
came to pick me up. Driving over to the station was an exercise in silence
and defeat. I hadn’t slept in over twenty-four hours. And somehow, it
was my fault.
After a week, the police called to report that the car was recovered.
When we got to the impound the following Monday, I was sucker-punched
at the sight of my baby. The mini-disc had been taken, it was caked
with mud, and the entire front column had been savagely ripped out.
All the paperwork that was in the glove compartment was dumped on the
floor. And there were gnats flying around inside the car. It smelled
like an animal had lived and breathed and attacked the inside of it.
Ironically, the only thing of value that hadn’t been taken was a book
that I had in the back seat. I guess phonics hadn’t reached this section
of the ‘hood. I was pissed off, disgusted, and violated. The cops told
us that the car was ‘drivable’, and we couldn’t even turn the engine
over. It was towed to an auto shop where, after three weeks of Allstate
Insurance investigators passing the buck, it was deemed completely totaled.
And then the fun really began.
At the end of August, I took my vacation down at our summer home. My
family was kind enough to buy me a new car. It was used, but in very
good shape, and it a smooth ride. ‘93 Buick, I believe. A real boat
of a car, and whisper quiet on the roads. I was happy with it. Throughout
the summer I was clinically depressed for the first time in my life.
I have manic depression; this is nothing that I hide. But I’m generally
on the manic end of the diagnosis. After going back to a job that I
couldn’t stand, going through a lot of emotional difficulties with various
females, I was in a tail spin. I’d been partying like a rock star, not
really caring where I ended up the next day, or if I made it to the
next day at all. None of these events that took place helped to buoy
my spirits, either. I’m not blaming my behavior on anything other than
myself, just giving you some decent background here. Setting you up
for the fall, as it were.
Perhaps I was waiting for the fall. For the other shoe to drop, and
hard, at that. About two weeks after getting my new car, I hung out
with the boys after work. We spent the beginning of the night next door
at a tavern, and then we went to a pub. I sang Irish folk songs with
two old men who had acoustic guitars and a similar love for the sad
ballads of Bob Dylan. We took pictures, and traded jokes. It was a nice
night. Then I went by myself to my favorite strip club, where I had
far too much to drink. After leaving the club at two or three in the
morning, a fence got in my way. Funny how those fences just sneak up
on you, isn’t it? In my state, I didn’t think much of it. The thing
rolled over the hood of the car and I just kept driving. It didn’t seem
to phase me or the car, so why worry about it?
After stopping at an all night greasy spoon, I noticed that the front
headlight was hanging off of car by a wire. Hmph, that’s peculiar. On
the way home, I got stopped. My luck had clearly run out. This was the
end of the line. In a town where the police weren’t really known for
their wonderful demeanor. I took the test on the side of the road, and
failed. They cuffed me and led me to the back of their car. I went without
complaint. There was no getting out of this one. I spent the night at
the station in lock-up listening to these bastards giving me a hard
time. They treated me like a criminal, and I guess, for that night,
I was. I got finger-printed; they took a mug shot, and I every time
I tried to sleep on the cold, hard bench of the cell they had me in
they’d holler over for something. I was ashamed of myself, and this
was what the cold granite of rock bottom felt like. I’d screwed up,
but good.
By morning, I called in a favor and a friend picked me up. I picked
the car up from the towing company the next day, and tried to figure
out what I was going to do. I called a lawyer. Enter Keith Perla, Attorney
at Law! He was a smoothie, and apparently, I was just under my limit
for the breathalyzer. When we met outside the courthouse, I was surprised
by his rather small frame. He was a slight, balding man with fierce
blue eyes and a smart gray suit who was three sentences ahead of whatever
I said. The whole ordeal cost me my entire nest egg (about $1500), but
he got me off with no points, no fines, and a trip to a DWI Impact panel
a month later. I promised to buy him dinner sometime, and we still keep
in touch. Before the panel, I had to go to traffic school, though. For
the bachelor party fiasco. Almost forgot about that one, didn’t you?
I went to driving school as a kid, but this was a whole other ball
of worms. Try and imagine detention for the adult demographic. Detention
that lasts for four straight hours. I got off to a good start by entering
the one way entrance the wrong way. There were two classes going on
in the same building, and all of the really good looking women were
in the other classroom. The A-M classroom. Dumb alphabetical luck! I
was herded in with junk men, suburban princesses, foreign cab drivers,
college boys with white baseball hats, some Wise Guy, and a man who
strangely resembled Kris Kristofferson. A real Rogue’s Gallery. The
school was conveniently located 20 feet away from the thruway. Throughout
the course, we got to hear the scolding whisper of twilight traffic
reminding us that we fucked up.
The instructor had a perfect hair helmet, the kind that football coaches
and problem drinking weathermen keep for their entire lives. He was
rambunctious, and spoke like some fired-up 3am motivational speaker
on tv. We all filed in and paid the fee for the class in front, and
someone paid with a roll of quarters! With only three girls in the room,
I wondered if the old ax is indeed true about 18-24 year old males:
We’ve got lead feet, and we know where to find trouble. I just couldn’t
believe that I’d gone seven years (after getting my license at 17) with
no tickets, fines, or convictions of any kind. Either we all have a
finite amount of luck that runs out, or our cruel deeds go punished
if we keep at them diligently enough. The punishment for a speeding
ticket is terrible films. Not the cool ones with blood and carnage either.
I would have stayed on for another hour if they had those ones.
Movies with sub-rate production values and b-list actors from the ‘60s.
Legions of leisure suits, mutton chops, porn star mustaches, Super Tramp
feathered hair-don’ts and disco ball afros. And they were interlaced
with these attention deficit friendly mini seminars sporting the corniest
anagrams I’ve ever encountered. A.lways S.top for S.ignals and H.ail
the O.fficer or L.ane worker at E.xits. And so forth. There was a certain
brainwashing quality to the short films, what with repetition and all.
Along with a revival of the Crash Test Dummies, those two guys from
the 1980’s public safety commercials. After two hours of these films,
I was ready to drive my car up the flight of steps and into the TV/VCR.
Then we moved on to the 15 minute feature length presentation, “Road
Rage: When Tammy Needlebaum Attacks!” followed by the short edutainment
clip, “Respect the Car! Tame The Foot!” I don’t even believe in road
rage, personally. It’s just another retarded politically correct term
for something that’s been around since cars were invented. It’s not
a diagnosis, and it’s not an epidemic.
Regardless, the film had a very Jedi-like theme throughout: “Don’t
let anger cloud the issue, Luke. Count to ten and then reload your weapon.
Crack the guy in front of you over the head with a Louisville slugger
or not; there is no try.” The examples the instructor gave were outlandishly
funny. Scalpings, Tommy Gun shoot outs, babies being shot-putted at
other cars in motion, etc. After the film, we had to tear through some
work sheets. One of them was an anatomical diagram with the effects
of x amount of drinks on the human body. The one arrow actually said
“Mouth-Alcohol is Drunk”. Epiphanic, is what that is. Then we were subjected
to a ‘pop quiz’ with ‘difficult’ multiple choice questions: Is it best
to a)flip someone off when they do something stupid in traffic, b)mutter
obscenities with pitch-perfect enunciation, c)shake your head in disgust,
d)perform a small ventriloquist act in which you sodomize a dummy that
resembles his wife with a large turkey baster filled with napalm, or
e)all of the above? About a month and a half after the driver safety
course, I had to attend the Drunk Driver Impact Panel.
The panel was painfully effective. After an hour of listening to stories
that you’ll hopefully never have to hear, I walked out feeling worse
than all of my parental scoldings and principal office summits put together.
I was moved that the judge for the courthouse stayed on at the end of
the day to listen, and that he took a personal interest in drunk driving.
That meant something to me. A lot of people say that all judges are
evil, or that all cops are a-holes, but that simply isn’t true. There’s
good and bad wherever you go. Sometimes the bad outweighs the good,
but sometimes a few dozen years of seeing the same damage puts a little
cynicism in your stride, too. Finally, I understood the other side of
the court room.
Throughout all of these mishaps, I’d been working on getting a claim
for my stolen car. Allstate Insurance should change their names to Asshole
Resurgence. At the time of writing this, it’s been four months and we
still haven’t received a check for the value of the stolen car. From
August to October, I gave a phone interview, twenty page notarized statements,
personal statements, and an interview under oath. Why would anyone try
and total their car, or get their car stolen, when you’ll never regain
the original cost, let alone the sentimental value? How does that make
sense? Scores of people drive around without insurance. Many more get
into accidents and don’t report them, or settle it without bringing
the agents into it to avoid the hassle. We did everything by the book
and we’re still suffering for it. Justice isn’t blind, She’s just an
accountant for an insurance company. After paying for just such an eventuality
over the years, we can’t get reimbursed. Why should I be made to feel
guilty for having my car stolen? I may have to get my hot shot lawyer
involved, and then it’s going to get ugly. And not for me, either. He’s
very good, talks very fast, and he always wins. We’ll see what happens.
A friend of mine (a full-fledged Buddhist), had a theory about bad
luck. He said that the Eastern belief concerning luck is that the bad
variety lasts for a year. Not that it travels in threes (that would
be comforting), or that your luck runs out and never gets replenished;
just one solid year of getting your karmic ass handed to you. Either
I’m paying for things that I’ve done in a past life (if you buy that
sort of thing), the stupidity I indulged in over the summer, or making
a down payment on a year or two of good luck. That would be nice. By
Confucius’ watch, I’ve got about six months of this left. And I’ll be
damned if I’ll tempt the fates anymore. Best just to drive sober with
my fingers crossed, and count the months. It feels like I’ve suffered
enough, but, being raised Catholic, I always expect suffering. Some
of my misfortunes were just plain bad luck, some could be chalked up
to stupidity, and the rest of it was downright tragic. Luck is too ambiguous;
I’d like to think that you make your own consequences, and that you
have to deal with them no matter what. A new calendar year is right
around the corner. I’ll keep a horse-shoe in my glove compartment just
in case.
