Crazy B*tch (Memoirs of a Lemon Lover in Recovery)
Chapter 34—Am I Trapped In Some Kind of Prison Flick?
It would seem that the gold car was on a bit of rear-end roll. Looking back, I realize that my gold car got more bumps to the trunk than a young boy at a gay bar. I began to wonder if maybe my chiropractor wasn’t paying people to follow me home on the day of my ‘last’ rehab appointment. In truth, I suspect he was pretty tired of me. He probably thought I was obsessed with him.
A more paranoid person would have wondered if my car was a little bit invisible. People just didn’t see me in time. I could rage, I could laugh hysterically, but in the end it didn’t matter. I kept getting rear-ended. I didn’t understand why, I couldn’t believe people didn’t see me. I drove around with my fog lights on all the time. I honked my horn freely, and flashed my high beams with wild abandon. Nothing seemed to really work to a full effect.
With the steady onslaught of rear-end collisions, came a steady onslaught of incidental repairs. My battery finally gave up the ghost and I had to replace her. My exhaust system started to suffer from all the repairs to my bumper. My fuel pump, brakes, and suspension all started to fail. I felt obliged to repair her. She was so pretty, and yet had gone through so much. My poor sweet gold car was being forced to age rapidly because of all the many collisions she endured. Not unlike boiling a live frog, I slipped, quite unaware, back into the old patterns of “fix and ride” I had once known with the shiny new blue car.
On the bright side, Sane Elsa, and Not Sane Elsa seemed to integrate. I no longer drove like the rest of the sheep. The risks were too large. If no one sees you, and you are driving like everyone else, your odds of finding all kinds of mischief seemed to be that much greater. Thanks to my dealings with the crazy woman, I saw up close just how crazy crazy can really look. It was scary, and unsettling. I wanted to aspire to something better than that.
On the not bright side, I was progressively becoming more emotional. All the rage I once felt towards the stupid people seems to have transmuted into some kind of grief. The littlest vehicular mishaps would set me to tears. One time I ran out of windshield washer fluid and I cried like I ran over Bambi. In times of rage, the tears led the assault. So, the night I was hit by an aged drunk driver, I was too busy crying like a baby to make any kind of sensible sense.
I should have properly ripped the dentures out of his head and beat him with them, but when he started yelling at me for turning left in front of him, my eyes welled up, and my throat seized my voice into a pathetic little squeak. I was so flummoxed I couldn’t even record the license plate information down correctly. Ironically, the old man was so drunk, he had similar problems accurately recording any information. He also had trouble standing up, and speaking without slurring. This old fart was fall down drunk, and yet I was too busy crying to report him to the police.
I really wasn’t keen to endure another situation like I did with the crazy woman, so naturally I was relieved when the insurance company indicated that he reported the accident, and claimed he was driving “without his glasses” and thus at fault. I know some might argue that I should have disclosed my suspicions about his sobriety at the time of the accident just out of principle. The problem is, without calling the police to the scene, there was no way to verify whether or not the old codger’s blood alcohol level was beyond legal limits. I missed the boat on that one, but the fact that he assumed responsibility, albeit with a lie, suggests that he was concerned I might report him to the authorities if he didn’t assume full responsibilities.
My poor golden car! Together she and I were making body shops and chiropractors rich. Selling her seemed shallow somehow. She was such a good car, collisions and the subsequent repairs not withstanding, I just didn’t have the heart to let her go. She was so pretty! My dad understood, and heartily encouraged me. He called my car things like “survivor” and “paid for”. My dad was so wise. Also, we both were painfully aware of recent developments in the auto industry. Our beloved Swedish imports were among the last of their kind actually designed and built in Sweden. Times, well, they were a-changing, and amongst the greatest casualty was our favourite car. If wanted to continue driving a truly authentic version of our beloved car, we would both have to continue driving our respective vehicles.