Love and Other Accidents

Yesterday afternoon, I was in a car accident. I stopped for an emergency vehicle, and another driver ran into the back of my car. It seemed like a no-brainer “not my fault” event, as I had been at a complete stop, with cars in front of me at a complete stop, for several seconds by the time the other lady plowed into me, but she thought we should get a police report.

So, we pulled off the road into a vacant lot, and waited. For over two hours. At which point, there was another crash on that stretch of the road: four or five cars were involved this time, with the nearby intersection obstructed. The cops managed to get to that one within twenty minutes, and when they'd dealt with those folks, they sent someone over to talk to us about our little piddly accident.

So, for almost three hours, I was sitting in my car, getting colder and colder, stubbornly refusing to turn on the car to run the heater, because it would be a waste of gas. I can pick some really inconvenient times to be an eco-freak.

Travis sat there waiting with me almost the entire time, because he'd called right after the accident happened, and -- to my surprise -- showed up almost immediately thereafter.  He kept me company except for a brief period of time, when he drove to my house and brought me back a plate of the coq au vin dinner Parker had made.

Picture this: I'm sitting behind the wheel of my car, in the dark, in a drab part of town (“Your Post-dated Checks Cashed Here!”), looking out onto the scene of the big accident; Travis is sitting in the passenger seat next to me, holding a plate of cold dinner; I'm picking bits of chicken off the bones with the fingers of my right hand, while holding my cell phone to my ear with the left hand. I'm talking to my father, because it's his birthday, and I wanted to make sure I called him before the end of the day. I don't say anything to my father about Travis being there, but I keep feeling like I want to mention it.

I want to say something like, “Yeah, Travis has been so sweet, keeping me company – he even got me some dinner!” But no, I'm just hashing over the details of the accident with my dad, and it is as if Travis doesn't exist, and I am powerless to make him exist. If I were to say anything about how grateful I feel that Travis is here, supporting me through my minor ordeal, I would be imposing my reality on my father, who prefers to forget uncomfortable facts about my life, such as that I have a boyfriend.

Travis, somehow erased by omission, sitting there silently holding my dinner plate for me. It is a little tragedy, and I am acutely aware of the injustice of it.

That isn't the only injustice, either, since the whole debacle ends with me getting a citation for an “unsafe lane change.” (Because I pulled over for an emergency vehicle, came to a complete stop, and several seconds later was hit by someone who was neither slowing or attempting to pull to the side? What??!?)

Picture this: I'm standing in my kitchen later in the evening, talking on my cell phone to my father for a second time, because, as a retired lawyer, he can perhaps advise me about whether or not I ought to contest the unfair citation. Travis is leaning against the kitchen counter to my left, near the microwave, and Parker is sitting on the other counter, to my right. I notice that we make kind of a triangle, the three of us, and I'm struck by the thought that my father, if asked to picture the scene at my house, would not picture what I'm seeing.

But I don't ask my father to picture anything. I thank him for his advice, wish him a happy birthday (again), tell him I love him, and press the “end call” button.