I’ve only gotten frustrated with my ’02 Toyota Corolla – genuinely disappointed – when one evening, after returning home from the learning center, a black BMW with gold-colored logos decided to create his own 90mph lane left of the fast lane. As I drove, I saw him cross into the shoulder, swerving and speeding, and ignoring the fact that the shoulder narrowed out and disappeared within about 100 feet. More confused than scared, I told myself not to freak out. Be confident in your driving, I repeated – slowing to 70mph, as did the cars behind me, inching as far from the crazed BMW as possible.
His car flew, and incidentally, he closed in on me just as the shoulder narrowed. He sped harder, trying to make it past my little, 4-horse Toyota before the shoulder disappeared completely. Unfortunately for him – and me – he didn’t make it, squeezing and scraping the driver’s side instead – then speeding off.
I was caught off-guard for a moment before realizing I had to get his plate number, fast. I gunned the gas and sharply maneuvered around the cars, trying to catch the hit-and-runner who was now trying to lose me by weaving through traffic. I closed in on him and got six of the seven license plate numbers, but was more interested in forcing him to pullover and be a man about his fuck-up.
But no such luck. As I chased him, a white Honda pulled up alongside me. A UCSB peer rolled down his window and yelled, “Everyone saw the whole thing. Are you okay?” I yelled yes through the window and flew off, trying to catch the asshole before he disappeared completely. He took my exit, coincidentally, but as I chased him across the ramp, I heard his engine roar and within seconds he had pulled far ahead of me. Even with the pedal against the floor, my car – my sweet, little silver ride – couldn’t rev her engine the same way as the pricey BMW almost out of sight. My engine whined pathetically as I urged it on. It was a soprano to the BMW’s strong, bellowing alto. I wished, for the first and only time ever, I had a little, German sports convertible capable of 0 to 60 in 5.
I slowed down then, noticed a fire station to my left and pulled into the parking lot.
After I was done shaking, I climbed out to survey the damage. A slew of scratches and dents and black paint smeared the left side of my card. Could have been worse; and as annoyed as I was that my car had been bruised, I was livid that I’d been the blessed receiver of a wild chase concluding in a hit-and-run.
The fire station smelled of laundry and fabric softener when I walked into a small room – obviously meant to be a poorly put together lounge. The men lounging on two ratty couches watching a basketball game jumped to attention as an eye-liner dripping girl walked stunned into the room.
They led me to the couch, handed me a ratty afghan draped across the couch arm and two of them sat a safe distance from me, while the others scuttled into the kitchen-attached to garage area.
“You okay?”
“Someone hit my car then drove off.”
“Did you get his license plate number?”
“Six of the seven.”
He wrote them down on a pad of sticky notes and walked it into the next room. He later came back, having called the CHP, and told me they were going to file a report and follow-up. He let me know that someone had called and already reported the hit-and-run – confirming the area and incident.
The one sitting to my right asked if there was anyone I wanted to call.
Andrew picked up on the first ring.
“Where are you? Did you work late?”
“At the fire station in Goleta. I got involved in a hit-and-run.”
“Are you okay? Do you need me to come down? Doesn’t matter, I’m coming down.”
“No, it’s okay.”
“I’m coming right now.” He ended the call.
I handed the nice man in suspenders to my left the clunky white phone.
“Do you want fajitas?” He offered.
I smiled at his normalcy, and attempt to make me comfortable. I settled deeper into the not-as-itchy couch and shook my head thank you. I watched the game silently, little figures in colors blurring across the small screen sitting atop a set of drawers. In the kitchen I heard the men discussing this morning’s sewage fire, the smell, the muck, the sewage… but mostly the smell. It made sense why the dryer was working full force, now.
The alarm sounded, startling me, and I heard one of the men groan. One of the men emerged from the laundry closet holding a set of damp fire fighter pants.
“Not dry.”
Grumbling, they each sorted through the clammy clothing for the right sized pants, pulling them up and complaining about the
That night, after forgetting my cell phone and Andrew being wonderful enough to drive back to the station to get it, he came back to report that the fire fighters had reported the CHP’s findings.
The man, a doctor who now faced his second hit-and-run charge, reeked of alcohol when the CHP visited him almost immediately running his license plate. They had taken a look at the black car in the driveway prior to knocking on his door. Sure enough, streaks of silver contrasted the dark paint. The CHP reported that the man had claimed that he and wife had just returned from a Costco trip. His wife (who I now realized had been a second passenger in the car) stunk of wine – and though the doctor’s first hit and run had turned into a DUI – the police couldn’t charge him with a DUI because they couldn’t prove that he hadn’t started drinking when he got home. Even though they knew that to be a big fat lie.
When the CHP asked him about the silver streaks, he claimed his wife had scraped the car with the trash can. The police finally clued the drunk in – he’d hit and run from an accident, lied to the police about it – but there were many witnesses, one of them who had called in with a license plate number matching the one I had 85.7% given them.
This man, a rich doctor who I’d thoroughly Googled, had gotten off easy. A restitution to me, a fine of some sort, and probation – despite this being his second offense. There wasn’t much I could do about it. Granted, all the authorities involved had been nothing but kind and accommodating to me, and of course it was much easier to be on the victim side of things. (Couch burning is a UCSB tradition – and a very expensive even to take part in.)
But still, there was nothing I could do. No where to send a complaint. I considered writing him a nasty letter, but figured that it was neither worth the effort, nor would it change the old dog’s behavior. It was the helplessness, and its following disappointment and frustration, that bothered me most. And I’m no stranger to feeling stuck without options. Some days I feel helpless because of the day’s monotony – whether revolving around days at class or chains to corporate cubes. Sometimes it’s the gray sky that evokes the gray cloud; it’s the sun’s brightness that my insides can’t mirror.
In the days of the learning center, my male teenage students were what left me at a loss – how many ways could I ask, tell, yell, scold them for the same behaviors? The occasional rubber bands snapped at me, the struggle against business-minded owners whose priorities were the books and not the kids, the sadness of watching kids fall, sometimes because of the poverty, sometimes because of the Gucci wealth, sometimes because of parents’ skewed priorities. But at least I felt hopeless because I cared and wanted the best for these kids who looked to me, not just for homework help and private lessons or federally funded babysitting, but for the emotional support many didn’t get at home; the praise and attention they craved from parents too busy either cleaning or flipping houses. But at least I cared.
It’s the utter defeat of my 8-5 Corporate World that kills me as much as the drunken doctor who escaped with a slap on the wrist. It’s the hopeless politicking, the inefficiencies, the things that could be done better – but ignored because I’m young; because my pay grade doesn’t require critical thinking, analysis, or strategy. Sometimes it’s incompetence of my superiors that rips me up, leaves me empty, un-empowered, desolate, depleted, apathetic. Nothing I can do to make people do their jobs so I can do mine. So I sit back and accept it, much like the under-payment I received to compensate the accident.
Months after the accident, I deposited a court-issued check into my bank account – it now being the majority of the cash I had available. I’d received a $500 restitution prize for my misfortune – which didn’t really cover the repairs, but served to seriously tick me off.
I pocketed the $500 meant to ease my hopelessness and decided to ignore the scarring.
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