I have been listening to the Books album “Lost and Safe” a lot lately, like when I wrecked my mom's van in Wayzata. (that's what is known as a hook)
This is a rough draft, as the interweaving of time and verb tense needs some revision. The end also falls off a lot, so feel free to imagine your own exciting explosions or sex scenes.
A head-on collision with a guardrail at about 6:50am on the second day of a new year has to be some sort of sign. My life did not flash before my eyes, but the guardrail sure as hell did. For the past year, I have felt increasingly disassociated, despite a growing awareness of connections in my world. In high school I started thinking one day I would hear an alarm clock, waking me up for my real life. I expected the wakeup call to come during a pep assembly, requiring me to fling my body from the bleachers into the next world. The Matrix can have negative psychological impacts on angst-filled teenagers prone to daydreaming.
I was on my way home when the alarm on my cellphone went off at 6:45 am this morning; I had set it to wake me up early enough to drive home with my mom’s van. In a blissful moment of a bad decision, I had spent the night at a boy’s house. After I shut off the alarm, I saw the curve of Highway 12 West in Wayzata quickly approaching. A voice in the back of my head suggested going 65 miles per hour (the speed limit, officer, I swear) around a curve during rain in January might be a bad idea.
When I was six, a vehicle backed out of a driveway a block from my home and knocked me from my bike. I fell beneath the wheels as my bike crumpled under the tires; a police officer carried me the half-block to my house. My mom was in the garage, and when I replay the scene in my head now I think of how easily the officer could have been carrying my corpse. I escaped without a scratch, but years later in high school I walked past that driveway everyday, nearly getting hit again twice.
On my date last night, the boy asked my greatest fear. After giving a guarded, witty retort of, “on a platform in the dark, suspended at a great height above water, giving a speech in front of people covered in spiders, and dying alone,” I forced myself to choose an honest answer. Death. I told him I don’t feel ready; I have more things left to accomplish. He told me his most likely cause of death would be suicide, to which I replied, “that’s sad.”
“Why?” he asked. I meant to say because that makes it sound premeditated, but I instead rattled off a list of accidents and diseases. I assumed there was a higher probability of fate intervening before his own hand did the job. He stopped me, and we kissed for the first time. I looked out onto the Lake of the Isles thinking I had found bliss. After years of bullshit, my black-haired boy had found me. He was born on June 3rd, 1985, some 36 hours after me, a few weeks late he said. His estimated date of birth is my sister’s birthday, I noted while we drank coffee and I analyzed his sweater with plaid collared shirt underneath.
I kept expecting to wake up last night; I do not go on dates with boys who share similar interests in hip Minneapolis coffee shops. The dark walk around a winter lake, the trip to a video store, the drive to a vantage point called Witch’s Hat, followed by watching a movie on his bed and drinking cranberry juice were too many brilliant coincidences.
I cannot remember if I attempted to slow down or started sliding first. I only had time to think, crap,Idon’treallyknowhowtodriveonicedoiavoidbreakingwhenslidinghowdoimovethewheel? The van skids across lanes in a wave-like motion, and my perception switches to a more cinematic out-of-body experience. I see the careening van approach me front on, but in order to get the best shot, my mind’s eye switches back to first person as I hit the guardrail. My perception, trained by years of cinema, chooses a quick jump-cut my face–hands clenched the wheel, teeth bared, and eyebrows raised–and with a pop-crunch sound effect (nothing dramatic, imagine energetic bumper cars) the airbags deployed.
Standing on top of the hill, being held by a boy listing off the heights of Minneapolis’ buildings, I became overwhelmed. Did I see similar, color shifting panels on the top of a building in Berlin while standing in the glass dome of the new Bundestag last March, or am I remembering those from my trip to Minneapolis two years ago? Is this city of lights more beautiful than the view in Duluth? I recognized the almost awe-inspiring nature of the moment, but I still felt awkward every time I spoke.
Another cut treats me to an aerial view of the green Dodge Caravan spinning 360 degrees across the momentarily deserted road to stop at an angle and reversed in the opposite shoulder, which feels like slow motion but happens in a second.
After dozing off for a few minutes in the arms of a boy I met only hours ago, I woke up when he whispered, “I feel like we’re in the woods.” I mumbled something stupid about him protecting me from the big bad wolf and fell back to sleep.
With the vehicle stopped, I grab at my glasses from the dashboard. I tear through the vehicle’s smoky haze trying to find my cell phone, which Newton has launched under the passenger seat. I grab it, and remembering the spectacular explosions I have seen in movies, I dash from the vehicle. For cinematic purposes, the escape should be filmed from a low angle with a handheld camera.
In the morning his alarm went off at 6. He kissed me before I left, and I wanted to ask if we were dating. Not wanting to jinx the night, I settled for the promise of a phone call or e-mail.
I walk down the median, and in a state of shock I call my mother. “Mom? You’re not going to like this, but I crashed the van. I’m not hurt, but the… wait, someone’s here, I’ll call you back.” I think he was a volunteer firefighter. He asked if I was okay, if anyone was injured. I asked him who I should call. He said 911 would put me through to the Highway Patrol. He drove off, and I told the dispatcher what had happened, getting confused about where I was.
On my way home from his house, I became lost when I assumed I-94W headed south. I heard a muted ringing and squirmed and to get my phone from my pocket. My mom was calling to ask if I was okay. I told her I was on my way, hoping no police cars had seen me swerve when I answered the phone. I turned around at the next exit and resolved to be more careful with my driving. Speeding down County Road 100 South, I turned on my wipers as it started to rain harder.
While waiting for the police to show up, I shiver in what I now understand to be freezing rain. Another man stops, asking if I am okay and can turn on my emergency lights, he says he nearly hit me. The van is dead, and I stare worriedly at bits of the fender and headlight strewn across the road. My brain gets into an argument with itself about whether or not this is a dream. Anytime something bad happens, I hope to wake up and return to my perfect life. I stand shivering in the rain, wondering what happened to my hat and how the hell an awkward, cautious boy like me ended up in this situation.
Waiting in the towing office of Plymouth Automotive, I feel awful for calling the boy I left an hour ago. He hardly knows me, and I am already asking for a huge favor? It’s too early for my two friends who live in the area to answer their phone, and I am too anxious to call anyone else. As I begin to cope with the accident, I decide a car accident is the perfect end to a first date. I want to feel exciting and spontaneous like the romance in Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, but I instead feel guilty for the bizarre combination of events that have transpired.
The Highway Patrol officer arrives, and tells me to wait down the median while he gathers the pieces of the van from the lane. Graphic images of cars sliding into his patrol car or the wrecked van and then mowing me down dance through my head. He asks for my insurance, and digging through the dark wreck of the glove compartment I can’t find anything the first time. He yells at me to get out of the van when a car slides into guardrail where I hit; the vehicle regains control and drives on. Two minutes later a woman launches her vehicle onto a snow bank in the exit parallel to my van. I feel out of my head when the officer asks for my driver’s license. I get mixed up explaining my permanent address is different now. He says my record and insurance information is coming, but paranoia tells me I will have my first experience with a breathalizer.
Walking up the stairs to the boy’s home northeast of Minneapolis, I paused to judge him by the posters on the wall. He passed with flying colors. He offered me a wide arrange of drinks from gin to vodka to tea. I chose cranberry juice knowing I had to drive home.
After the tow truck arrives and loads the van onto the flatbed, the driver tells me to get in. I feel like the cop is not finished with me, but he never comes to truck, too busy with all the other near accidents. The sun has come up by the time I head backwards from home and into Plymouth with my mother’s wrecked vehicle. I wonder how I will get home, but I mostly start to think about how I could have died. Once the shock has worn off, my mind starts looking for humorous car crash anecdotes to smooth over my second major fuck-up in life.
On the ride home from the towing place, I clutched the handle of the door the whole way. We drove on the curve where the accident happened, and I kept expecting him to lose control of the vehicle. I briefly wondered the chances of living through two accidents in one day. He seemed surprisingly casual, but I remained guilty while reliving my crash the entire drive. He left me in the driveway with a soft kiss goodbye, and walking to the door I fell into sitting position feet from my front door. I looked back at him as he pulled out, and I gave the thumbs up, thinking how utterly retarded I was. I take this as karma’s last laugh, a slapstick reminder that I still unhurt, and wonder what the rest 2006 will have to offer.