6 April 2016
There seems to be a pattern emerging. About once every forty-six years, according to the data to date, I am going to blunder out into traffic and wreak inconvenience upon innocent strangers. Now, seriously, I don’t really mean any harm. The trouble is, I don’t seem to mean anything at all in those moments. In 1970, for those of you tuning in late, I was actually trying to watch the traffic but I was gulled by Steve Ramos who gestured for me to cross, so rather than noting the bread truck bearing down on me…
But you’ve all heard that tale before.
But wait, I should probably stress before I go any further that EVERYBODY IS OK!
Well, okeh, not “AOK” okeh. I for one am still on the mend from a little buffeting and cracked ribs, and I am gratified to report that as far as injuries go, I got the worst of it. As far as restitution for property damage, well, I got the worst of that, too. GEICO took a hit on behalf of the others, but that’s their job. Right? As for me. I eat my own damages. So happier endings, anyway.
So… the details:
On my way to work Friday night (18 March) in my “new” (1998) Buick and I’m just cruising up the off ramp from the Interstate attempting to signal my intended left turn to get to work on time — by which point its signage is visible from the block or few away. For some reason, the turn signal is not engaging so I fiddle with that as I ease to a gentle reflexive stop at the intersection. Still monkeying with the switch I vaguely realize that I’m probably leaning on the detent somewhere along the linkage.
“To unimaginative vocabulary with it, then,” says my deliberative mind, or something like that, “it’ll all be moot once I’ve actually turned left.”
Somewhere along here, I think, is where my reflexive mind starts giving itself airs, thinking it was just as important as the autonomic mind. “Left turn?” it asks brightly. “I know how to turn left! You wanna go left? We can go left! We turn left all the time!”
Meanwhile, my deliberative mind is till focusing on my new turn signal challenge and watching the flashing green light green light green light on my dashboard.
“What?” asks the reflexive mind. “Green light? Left turn? Green light! Left turn! LET’S GO!”
Suddenly, my deliberative mind snaps to keenly urgent attention. I see that I am entering the intersection and that on my left is a little yellow —
BAM! Sudden violence and motion and then I am stopped with airbags deployed (sadly, weakly, and seemingly ineffectually, I might add) and my front left is crunched up against the front left of an oncoming white SUV. Outside of my wreck are kindly and solicitous people enquiring after my welfare and I assure them that I feel physically fit, if a bit shaken. Because of the crunch action on the left side, I am unable to exit my door, so I have to crawl over to the co-pilot’s port, retrieving my ever-full lunch bag and my ever-faithful notebook before exiting.
Outside finally I notice one of the helpful gents was on his phone so I asked him if he’d called the police.
“I’m talking to them now.”
“Thank you,” I said, but brought out my own phone anyway as I wanted to call work and explain that “One, I’m not going to get to work on time tonight. Sorry about that, but, two, that cluster of flashing lights (by which time the police and ambulance and firetruck have all arrived) you can see from our parking lot is me. Stay tuned for developments.”
So eventually a police officer gets around to me, after getting reports from other witnesses, and I claim to have no specific recollection of seeing a red or green light over the intersection. Officer Friendly (alias) says that he is probably going to have to cite me for running the light, and I agree that that seems apt. He indicates that if I prefer I could call in before court and they would quote me a fine and I could mail in a check. That seems a little insufficient to me, but I say nothing about that. I just thank him and go back to dealing with the tow guy.
I must point out here, that throughout the entire experience, every person I encountered, from the working officers and standing around EMTs and idle firemen and witnesses, and even my hapless victims, all were perfectly polite and courteous and seemed to care most about everybody’s physical well-being.
I suppose said hapless victims were also mollified by the fact that I have remained in good standing with my bookie for decades and so they were out only their irreplaceable time (but in exchange for memories to last a lifetime? — possibly too short with me on the road.)
I may owe a great measure of gratitude for their courtesy to the fact that I was not stinking of liquor or reeking of weed, that my manner was perfectly alert, if embarrassed and contrite, but in all respects sober. Near death experiences are at the very least sobering.
Upon reflection… the physics. Reconstructing it from the visual aftermath and my own experience, this is what happened.
I was sitting at the intersection facing south. Yellow mustang has the right of way and is traveling west at 40 mph. I enter the intersection from mustang’s right and he clips my front left side caving in my door, giving me a hearty body slam, imparting stretched tendons and muscles in my shoulders and neck, deep bruises through my left torso, and cracking one or two ribs as well.
Because it was an off-center impact (and this narrative is hauntingly familiar) I spun clockwise as I was pushed west. Because the mustang was much lighter than my buick, and because the conservation of momentum will allow no exceptions, yellow mustang took up my southward momentum and slid halfway down the entrance ramp to the Interstate where they did not want to go. Because it was the smallest car involved in the incident, that’s where the ambulance parked, but again, it left with no passengers.
My heavier tank, however, took up the mustang’s westward momentum and bounced right (and spun) until it came to a stop in the corner of the aforementioned white SUV, which faced east, was probably traveling east, and had a little more time to start slowing down before I stopped him.
Since I had broken ribs before, I immediately recognized the symptoms as well as recalled the prognosis, so I felt no need to listen to a doctor tell me to do exactly what I intended to do and to expect exactly what I expected, and then add the phrase, “Three Hundred Dollars, please.”
I eventually made it to work, of course, and was then obliged to recount the whole event. Apparently, my colleague derives vicarious glory by recounting my misadventure. When I arrived at work the next night I was greeted like a conquering hero. Folks were amazed that I was working with cracked ribs the second day, let alone the fact that I came in directly from the event and worked the rest of my shift.
As I patiently explained to them, with cracked or broken ribs the least uncomfortable position is standing up, so I could be at home and in pain, or at work and in pain and getting paid for it.
Court was mostly anti-climactic, but still satisfying. It was a great relief to stand before the magistrate and hear him actually read the charge.
“Failure to follow traffic advisory devices resulting in a collision.”
He did NOT say, “…resulting in injury or fatality.”
I copped to the charge.
He asked me how I felt about it.
I told him that I felt enormously stupid and lucky.
He asked if I carried insurance and I assured him I did.
He pronounced sentence and we were done.
I paid the clerk the assessment and tried very hard not to float all the way out the door.
According to Daniel Webster (I think), “God protects drunks, fools, and the united States of America.” Whatever the cause, I will take good luck.