The Time I Should've Died

A hot-rodded out, barely-functioning '69 Nova.

Like this, but magenta and rusted:


My first car, $1000, a rolling death trap, no exhaust pipe, an ignition wire coming loose once as I pop the clutch driving up a hill to school because the wire was jammed into the fuse box, the car rolling down hill until I'm able to stop it. Weeks later, driving to a work party during rush hour right near where the 94 and the 125 meet, a sudden scraping of metal from the engine, the car comes to a stop in the middle lane. Throw on the hazards, wait a few minutes as cars drive around me, more worried about trying to run to the side of the road and seeing somebody hit the car, so a flashlight (it was dark out, early evening), opening the hood, and then waking up on a stretcher being loaded into an ambulance.

"What happened?"

"You were in a car accident."

"How bad is it?"

"It's pretty bad."

"That sucks. I was on my way to a work party to hang out with the cute girls from my work."

"You probably shouldn't talk."

Waking back up in the hospital, being wheeled to a room, a woman cutting off my shirt and pants, a tinge of embarrassment and then a realization that she deals with this all the time. I instruct the doctors to pull my wallet out and find the numbers for my parents and my bosses and my roommates. They stare at me wide-eyed.

Waking back up in the bed, everyone looking in, telling my mom about the party I was missing. More wide eyes. Tubes coming out of me. X-rays. A plastic surgeon arrives, I go under. Wake up in the morning, my knees not broken like they feared, I don't how many stitches in my face and head, missing teeth. My mom suggests not looking in the mirror. A wheelchair ride outside.

Unable to walk for days, to eat solid food, to smile. Eventually a denture for the tooth that's completely gone, but three badly cracked teeth besides that. A trip to the junkyard to see if the car is salvageable. It is not. The air filter and long bolt holding in are crushed. "I did that with my face," I say. More wide eyes.

A police report diagramming a car hitting mine from behind at around 45 mph, me sticking out from underneath the side of the car, twenty ahead. Somehow the car didn't run me over.

A man stuck in traffic on the other side of the freeway, a full view, a 911 call. Regret still that I never called him to thank him. Still curious how I was affected by all this.