Dear Diary,
I think Zachary is a stupid idit below dimwitt.
Yours tuley,
Jessie
Zachary is my younger brother. At the time I wrote that diary entry, I was both very angry with him and determined to establishing a hierarchy of insults. When I was 10 I would use the digital thesaurus in our class to look up synonyms for “stupid” to fling at my tormentors like so much sad, wounded confetti. I suffered from poor social skills and a complete lack of awareness of playground etiquette. Let’s talk about the first time I was in a car accident.
I was a senior in high school when Zachary was a freshman, and that year we both attended a regional high school about 40 minutes away. I drove us there every day in my very first car, a 1985 Ford Tempo. It was one year older than me, with a white matte exterior, blood-red velour interior, metal Masonic emblem permanently affixed to the rear bumper, wildly uncomfortable to sit in for anyone taller than 5’2”…basically just take all the wildest dreams of a 17-year-old girl, run ‘em through a meat grinder, cover that in glitter, and install a CD player.
About two days after that CD player was installed, the car started occasionally stalling out at red lights.
This particular day I had laryngitis and was running a fever, but told my mom I would still drop my brother off at school. We were about halfway there, my brother alternating between eating an entire pumpkin pie—with whipped cream—for breakfast and complaining about being forced to listen to Yankee Hotel Foxtrot again, when the CD player’s display flickered and dimmed. The power steering locked up, briefly.
It was happening.
The car was stalling out.
It was going to stall out the next time I stopped moving.
And it wasn’t going to start again.
Imagine a really sad, 25-mph version of Speed where a 17-year-old whose baseline anxiety level is comparable to a small frequently-handled rabbit is playing the Sandra Bullock, Keanu Reeves, and Dennis Hopper roles, very literally silently screaming at her brother to QUIT TALKING I NEED TO FOCUS I DON’T CARE THAT YOU DROPPED YOUR FORK I NEED TO TURN OFF THE CD PLAYER THE CAR IS STALLING OUT THIS IS SERIOUS I KNOW THE CAR IS UNCOMFORTABLE WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT SHUT UP I NEED TO CONCENTRATE GET OUT OF MY WAY WHAT—
CRUNCH.
I didn’t have to stop the car because when I hit the car in front of me, it stalled out.
“I just got pie all over everything. My knees hit the glove compartment. What the hell, Jessie?”
“Fuck. I don’t have my phone. Fuck.”
“Hey, look at that cute dog in that car. You almost killed that cute dog.”
“Should I get out of the car? Move your legs, I need to get the registration out of the glove compartment.”
“There’s pie all over the glove compartment. Jessie, there’s a baby in that car. JESSIE YOU ALMOST KILLED A BABY.”
“There’s a shirt in the backseat, use that to clean up–wait a minute, what is that noise? WHY IS THE BACK OF MY CAR COVERED IN BEER CANS?”
The back of my car was covered in beer cans.
That’s about the time the police drove up and I really lost it. As much as I wanted to scream, I couldn’t actually raise my voice above a whisper, but in the tirade I launched at my brother (who was clearly the one who littered my backseat with covertly consumed cans of Coors Light), I certainly gave it my best shot.
My clearest memory of that first car accident is making high-pitched whisper-screams of “BULLSHIT” over and over and over as my brother collapsed into hysterical laughter. I only stopped when I noticed a tapping on my window. It was a policewoman, asking me to roll down my window so she could order me to move my car out of the road.
Some combination of hand gestures and sobs allowed me to successfully communicate that my car had died its final, sad death and wasn’t going anywhere. We grabbed our belongings to go stand with my victim in a parking lot as the policewoman radioed for a tow truck and tried to decipher my admittance of guilt. She really tried to give me the benefit of the doubt, too.
“Did the other driver use her turn signal?”
“I don’t—maybe—I—“
“Oh, she definitely did.” Thanks, Zach.
As the tow truck arrived, I–still hysterically crying–asked the woman if her dog and baby were okay, in that order (they were) and could I use her phone to call my mom (I could).
Our car was totaled, but my mom’s anger was softened by the fact that the other driver didn’t file a claim, as she only had minor paint damage. My brother still insists he has no idea where those beer cans came from and neither do I.
Tags: 1985 ford tempo, bullshit, car accidents, run-ins with the law, stupid little brothers
Jesssiiiiieeeeee!
My thoughts exactly. Eeeeeeee!
I had an old Ford Tempo that was one year older than me for my first car, too! MEANINGFUL COINCIDENCE.
It was the ugliest shade of tan and had no AC but I loved it.
I loved having a car. I loved having a car.
Jessieeeeeeee
you and your brother are exactly the same age spread as me and my brother! fourteen-year-old boys are the ultimate twerps. i can attest to this.
If there is not one of these comments on everything I ever write I will quit comedy I SWEAR IT.
If there is not one of these comments on everything I ever write I will quit comedy I SWEAR IT.
My car was a 1984 Ford Thunderbird (also a year older than me) that would stall out at stoplights/signs if it was too cold. The defrosters didn’t work so I would have to send a friend into my back seat to wipe away the condensation from the window in the winter. It would also fishtail when approaching stop signs on slippery streets.
I rear-ended someone in it, completely smashed up the hood, and had to get 11 stitches on my nose when it hit the steering wheel when the seatbelt didn’t catch. The car in front of me had no damage. I still got a ticket because someone (ME!!!) got hurt.
It was black. After that accident my neighbor fixed the hood by getting a red one from the junk yard and replacing it. My dad painted the rust spots with black paint, but never bothered to paint the rest of it.
I sort of miss that beast of a car.
I still got a ticket because someone (ME!!!) got hurt.
Literally adding insult to injury. That’s messed up.
This was great, well-told! (I don’t want to talk about car crashes.)
When I was 18, I rear ended another car, and that car rear ended the car in front of it, and the two victim cars were lodged into each other. My car came out with a dented license plate. My 15 year old sister was with me, and about as useful as a 14 year old brother. It was a cold rainy Tuesday afternoon.
When we were all standing on the side of the road comparing licenses and swapping insurance information, I discovered two things. 1.) Everyone in the other car was also born in 1973! 2.) The car I hit was the groom, and the car that he hit was the bride and best man. They were headed down to city hall to get married.
I always wondered if they went through with it that day. I’m not quite sure I would have. I didn’t get married until 20 years later.
Assuming nobody was injured, I’m sure they still got married and you just gave them a wedding story to tell. Every wedding has to have some sort of disaster that is funny when you look back on it.
My thoughts exactly. Eeeeeeee!
Jessie, I could have told this story except (a) my car was a lemon-yellow 1978 Ford Fiesta and not older than me; (b) it wasn’t the electrical system, it was the starter motor; (c) I had a younger sister who didn’t like pumpkin pie; and (d) I managed not to hit anyone else when stalling out. Glad everyone was OK!
Jessie, I could have told this story except (a) my car was a lemon-yellow 1978 Ford Fiesta and not older than me; (b) it wasn't the electrical system, it was the starter motor; (c) I had a younger sister who didn't like pumpkin pie; and (d) I managed not to hit anyone else when stalling out. Glad everyone was OK!
My first car accident was when I was driving my friend home. It was the first time I drove without an adult in the car! But it wasn’t my fault! The lady behind me turned around to yell at her kids, so she didn’t see the red light. She rear-ended me, I hit the car in front of me, and they hit the car in front of them, who was an off-duty cop.
My first car actually wasn’t a piece of crap. It was a 1988 Dodge Omni (only 4 years old at the time), and it was a tough little car. I loved that car. I was driving home from a job interview, excited that they hired me, and I’d just picked up Panzarottis* (one of my favorite foods) for my dad and me for dinner. I’d almost made it home when I misjudged at a divided highway crossing and got t-boned. Nobody was hurt, but the side of my car was smashed in. The bucket seats got pushed together, trapping the Panzarottis. They were inaccessible. I was just as upset about that as I was about totaling the car. I really could have used a Panzarotti at that moment.
*They’ve gotta be Tarantini.
Much gratefulness to you to such a degree. I take in an astonishing measure to know, how to upgrading our capacities and get the opportunity to be accomplishment, exceptionally animating afresh.
Much gratefulness to you to such a degree. I take in an astonishing measure to know, how to upgrading our capacities and get the opportunity to be accomplishment, exceptionally animating afresh.