Crash

July 24, 2013

She was quaking sideways, off to the left of her caved-in, once pristine, stark-white vehicle. A booster seat tossed onto the floor in the back, miraculously vacant of a little form. The child had been reluctantly left behind, with her father, earlier that evening. Bits of plastic scattered the entrance ramp, I collected what might have been useable. Her accident magnet hobbled its way up to a wider spot on the road, to avoid another unforeseen collision. As the thin, twenty-something exited the borrowed car, she seemed to hear my words of comfort and promptly burst into a fountain of tears. I held her wobbly body and whispered non-absorbing phrases. “The police are on their way,” she assured me, as she punched familiar numbers to seek aid in escaping the scene.

The other driver, just as young and inexperienced, bolted from her car and paced the accusatory landscape, immediately clutching her driver’s license and insurance card. As I handed over my contact information, as an observer to the abhorring play, she asked me what I witnessed. “I saw you careen across three lanes to exit the freeway and smash into the driver’s door of the car, that was minding its own business on the off-ramp.” She nodded in agreement, seemingly sans emotion. She was not as gloomy as I expected her to be, not at all crushed from the consequence of her actions. I suspect it was not her first accident. Initially, I thought she was going to give us the slip, for she pulled ahead quickly, and eventually stopped her grey, very dented car. Pretty and appropriately dressed-to-kill, her fashionably clipped hair swayed in the wind. She appeared unaffected as she approached the quavering victim. I left them to their own devices, after suggesting they could call me, if need be.

A black Toyota truck had pulled over as well. A stubby man, with little buried eyes, and a sullen look parked on his face, gathered his information to hand-over to the Barbies. We both drove off, shaking our heads in despair.