Adios White-Trash Toyota

When the old geezer isn't farting dust, he's attempting to commit vehicular manslaughter.

It’s time to say farewell to an old friend.  Those who have read Waiting for Karl Rove know one of the main characters in the book is my white-trash Toyota.  This faithful transport carried Jeni Decker and me halfway across the country in our search for Karl Rove.  Buy the book if you want to know where we ended up waiting for him.

Yesterday, Methuselah’s grandfather sped through a red light and T-boned my car.  It seemed a weird thing to do because there were other cars stopped at the red light.  Maybe he’s dying and had been planning to run into a tree, but took a look at the white-trash Toyota and thought – The woman driving that piece of shit probably wishes she were dead.  RAMMING SPEED!

It must have been during the spinning and crashing into an SUV pulling up to the intersection that I thought –  What the fuck? I didn’t sign up for this carnival ride.  His truck hit the passenger side of my car or I might be dead, or at least still internally bleeding after 24 hours.

For a car wreck, it turned out to be a fairly good experience.  The witnesses were supportive; the police officers were great, and the paramedics humorless.  One of them didn’t crack a smile when I made a tasteless joke about an ambulance ride being on my bucket list…as long as I’m not decapitated at the time.  I guess my morbid sense of humor came too soon after the last headless body he transported.  I don’t think these things out when I’m traumatized.

The accident happened in front of the bookstore I manage.  One of my co-workers saw my car spinning and was the first to get to me. She expected to see lots of blood and compound fractures, and I think might have been a bit disappointed with my mediocre performance as a victim.

My attacker stood around with his hands shoved in his pockets playing pocket pool and farting dust.  He didn’t come over to apologize.  I’m not surprised because I’ve had close encounters with geriatric drivers before.  It’s my theory they have so many wrecks their insurance companies have sent them memos in TRIPLICATE instructing them to never apologize, as that would be an admission of guilt.  Once the adjuster takes a look at the white-trash Toyota, champagne corks will be popping at his insurance company’s corporate headquarters.  My 16-year old car is not even listed in the Blue Book of used car values.  I suspect I won’t get a dime to replace my only means of transportation and that’s a shame because my savings totals about thirty-six cents.  There’s a PayPal button on my website if any of you Russian porn bots (my only visitors) wish to donate a dollar to buy me some decent walking shoes.

After the car was towed, the shattered glass swept up, and the gawking over, I sat down in front of my workplace to make some phone calls and smoke a cigarette.  The worst part of the day occurred when I looked up to see the district manager walk into the store.  I think my initial thought was – you have got to be shitting me!

I did go into work which probably wasn’t the best idea because I might have been in shock.  I spent most of the time repeatedly walking in circles looking for paperwork I had in my hand a few minutes before.  Besides the apparent scrambling of my brains, I had a bruise the size of a pancake on my leg that resembled either Florida or Africa.  Since I refuse to have a nutty State like Florida on my leg I’ve named my bruise Mshinde, which means loser in Swahili.

I had to get up early the next morning to go to a mandatory store meeting on my day off.  I could have caught a ride, but decided walking would help me avoid getting stiff and sore.  I remember well my days as an emergency room doctor.  (Okay, maybe I got a concussion in the wreck.)  What’s hilarious about working and attending the meeting is that my boss, whose mantra during ice storms is – drive slow, you can make it into work – told me there was no way she would have worked after being in a crash as severe as mine.  So I blew a three-day weekend.  Once again I’m considering the possibility of brain trauma.

As I left the meeting, my boss asked if I wanted to take the leftover donuts she bought to bribe us to show up.  I declined because walking two miles being attacked by packs of hungry dogs, feral cats and the homeless seemed too much like a reality show cross between Hardcore Pawn and The Biggest Loser – Kat Nove starring in Hardcore Loser.  Excerpt from pilot – HERE’S YOUR DONUT!  TAKE IT!  TAKE IT!  QUIT HUMPING MY LEG YOU FUCKING PSYCHO POODLE!

And so begins my late-in-life workout program; which involves walking everywhere.  Bye-bye heart attack, stroke and diabetes.  Thanks Mr. Codger who shouldn’t be driving.  You saved my life.