There's snow everywhere. Snow and ice. The world around me is frigid, crystalline, blank. But this time, there's something different to it that I'm not used to. The ice storm created a thick layer of slippery under the snow, and it makes everything so much more dangerous. SC fell like eight times as we tried to get him in the car today. The trash trucks just drove by, not stopping at my house: there was no way that I was getting the cans down the slippery driveway. School was cancelled for the third day in a row, and I can see why; the roads are still slush-covered, the driving dangerous.
After a few attempts, however, I got my car down the driveway, gingerly. I had to spend some time knocking the huge chunks of ice off from the tire well so that the wheels could turn, and then I had to judge my descent so that I wouldn't run into any oncoming traffic if my brakes wouldn't work on the ice. I proudly drove SC over to the sitter, where he ran inside and began excitedly playing with his friends (and his frenemy). After a brief time cooing over the babies - adorable little George, 4 months, and sweet, white little Aryan (yes, really), 1 year - I got back in my car and decided to get a coffee. The easiest place to get to, in light of the road conditions, was McDonald's, so I drove there and grabbed a small coffee (free until the weekend, apparently!) and a muffin.
As I was inching through the slushy drive-through, I was reminded of another drive-through, at a Wendy's, in a cold, snowy day similar to today. It was the winter of 2001, most likely, and I was a fairly new driver. I had a car named Murphy. Murphy was a 1992 Oldsmobile Cutlass - a two door. She was bright turquoise.
There she is. Pretty, huh? Well, Murphy was amazing. She had bumper stickers all over the back - Tori Amos, I'm sure, and I think a sticker of a fairy or something. The back window was lined with stuffed animals of all shapes and sizes. There was a leopard print steering wheel cover and fuzzy leopard print dice hanging from the rearview mirror. She was me - the tacky, hidden part of me that we don't talk about. I loved that car. She had a 6 cylinder, and she could haul ass out on the highway. You'd be just starting up, going like 25, and you'd press down on the pedal and she would kick it up to 70 with this surge of power. Every car since has made me paranoid that something was wrong with it because I couldn't get it to resonate with speed like Murphy.
Anyway, I was at the drive-through, and when it was my turn to order, I went to roll down my huge window. The handle wouldn't work. I tried harder. Nothing. So I pulled up a little, opened my door, and ordered something (I'm sure it was from the dollar menu). I closed my door, pulled up to the window, opened my door, and paid. Then I went to pull up to the next window. Instead of closing the door, pulling up, and opening it again, I kept the door open. I reached down to shift the car into "drive", hit the pedal and... went backwards. I was a new driver, and I had shifted into "reverse" instead of "drive". The door hit the small yellow pole that was next to the building and immediately ripped off. I looked up at the drive-through attendant, who looked at me, her eyes growing wide. She said, "Maybe you'd better pull over to the parking lot", so I turned my car, the door hanging, useless, from the hinges, and slowly rolled the car to the nearest space.
I think I was in a state of shock,. This was my first accident ever - and a very stupid one. I called my dad on my cell phone and then my insurance company. They, in turn, called a tow truck. I sat there, feeling like an idiot. About ten minutes later, a police car pulled up next to me. Now, if you recall, I was not bestest friends with the police officers from the city. Those two, a year previously, had burst into my apartment and threatened me on their quest to find "Lisa Collins". I often butted heads with them in the emergency room when I was called in to advocate for a rape victim. So when I saw the car, I groaned. The officer - a handsome man a year or two older than me who turned out to be named Dave - walked over and looked at the door. Then he gave me a grin and said, "Well, that looks fun. Did you call your insurance company?" (Side note: The following summer, D and I were volunteering at a Humane Society event in Toledo. Toledo police were there, and they asked if we knew any cops. I told them that I knew Dave. One cop turned to the other, nodded knowingly, and said 'Yeah, I BET she knows Dave...') I told him that a tow truck was coming. Then he went inside to talk to the Wendy's management, who, apparently, were worried that I was going to sue them for the accident and wanted to know if I had a case. I, um, did not.
Eventually, the tow truck came for my car and the officer offered me a ride home. I asked him if I could sit in the back and he laughed and said that I could. When we were situated in his car, he called in to the main precinct and reported that he was leaving location A with a female and was transporting her to location B. This started a flood of questions: Why did he do that? (It was standard protocol; sometimes police are accused of assault). What was the most scary thing about being a cop? Did he always check at 4-way stops to make sure that people made complete stops? Did he know the guys who barged into my apartment a year ago? (He did; they were the laughingstocks of the entire precinct). Who got to decide which uniforms the cops wore at different times? He answered all of my inane questions very nicely, and he laughed at me a lot. To be honest, I was really shaken up by the car incident, worried that my dad was going to be pissed (he was not) and I needed to talk. I'm glad the police officer was there to listen.
When we got to my house, he pulled up and walked around to let me out. I thanked him for the ride and for opening my door. He laughed at me and reminded me that there was no handle on the inside of the backseat of a police car. Flustered, I said, "Well... still... thanks." I walked inside and he drove away. I probably immediately called D.
The car was fixed (D points out that every time we would drive past the repair shop while Murphy was in there, I would cry out 'Murphy, Mama's sorry she broke your arm!') and the story was passed from friend to friend, so I got laughed at for a while. So let that be a lesson to you: if your window doesn't open, park and go inside.
Luckily, though, today, my car window opened just fine, and I got my coffee and muffin. I rescued my trash can that had blown two blocks away and curled up inside my house to watch Netflix and blog about my shameful past for your enjoyment. You're welcome.
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