And Still I Drive

In the winter of 1999 I was writing obits for the paper and we were living in a quaint little garage apartment about five minutes from work. On my way to the office one early Sunday morning I had to slow down suddenly when a Times delivery truck came to an unexpected stop in the middle of 16th Street. As I rolled to a stop I looked up to notice that the truck had shifted into reverse. Just as I realized that the driver had no idea I was behind him the truck began to back up with surprising speed.

I slammed my car into reverse and pounded uselessly on my horn as I tried frantically to back away from what I assumed in that moment would be the end of my short and impoverished life. As the truck hit me, I had the presence of mind to pop the car into neutral (there was nobody else on the road at this hour of the morning) and the impact sent me my poor Saturn flying backwards a good couple of feet before we settled to a stalled, stunned stop.

When I could open my eyes I saw the driver�s expression of complete shock and surprise in the truck�s side-view mirror, the one with the little round inset glass for the express purpose of seeing around the end of the 15 ft trailer before you back up. We pulled off the road into an alley and the guy went into hysterics. He was actually crying.

A youngish African-American man with a hard-knocks look to him, he asked me if I was okay and begged me over and over again not to report the incident. He told me he was new on the job, still on probation and would certainly be fired and then of course, his family would starve to death and I�d have all those poor people�s suffering on my conscience for the rest of my life.

I was shaking like a leaf at 7:45 a.m. on a chilly January morning, alone in an alley with an hysterical man. You could say my freak meter was off the charts. Seeing no visible damage to the front end of my car and being suddenly desperate to get the hell out of that alley, I told the man to be more careful and drove off to work wondering how long it would take the adrenaline to wear off so that I could actually concentrate on my job.

A week later, I realized that my odometer no longer worked. Then and there I swore in anger that I would never again allow someone to hit me without getting proper insurance and contact information or filing a police report. I was irritated with myself for being such a dupe. The dealer wanted $800 at the time to replace the thing and there was no way. I never got it fixed.

I lied.

Flash forward to life in Atlanta. I�ve probably been rear-ended three times since we�ve lived here, Tanya at least twice. I don�t think either of us has yet collected so much as a name from any of the folks who�ve hit us. Last night was the worst yet.

I got popped but good while sitting at the light on Clairmont at 85. One minute I�m singing along with Madonna�s Ray of Light and the next…I think I heard myself yell out a shocked Aaargghh when the impact jolted me into the steering wheel. Determined to exact swift justice on the idiot behind me I turned my face into a snarl of rage and glared into the rear-view mirror–at the panic-stricken face of a tiny little Indian woman.

By the time we waited for the light and pulled into the gas station my anger had almost completely been replaced by resigned annoyance and rather than screaming at her for being an incompetent driver I sighed and asked her if she was okay. We looked over the cars. There was no visible damage. I wasn�t even shaking or freaked out. I guess I�m getting too used to this shit here. And of course, I let her off the hook and she drove her rickety late model Nissan out of the BP lot.

I am an idiot.

So do me a favor and pray that when I�m driving on 285 and my rear axel splits and rolls out from under the back of my car that I�ve earned enough vehicular Karma points that the hand of heaven will scoop me up and rescue me from my own stupidity. Lord knows my insurance agent won�t.