Push Me, Pullman

Not much has happened this week. Since we got home from Portland I’ve really thought of nothing but the van situation. I’ll never be able to reminisce without having one memory in particular come to mind. It was late summer of ‘96. We were returning from our Saturday college algebra class. Three types of people take college algebra on Saturday mornings; those who flunked the first time, those working adults who have no other time, and high school overachievers seeking duel credit. I missed my turn so continued along the road I was on which took me on a zigzag route of back roads. Exuberated to have finally found the correct road once again I slammed down on the accelerator and turned left onto the road. The tension on the gas control has a bit of resistance when pressure is first applied but then gives. To combat this and prevent creeping out into a street like an elderly driver I slam down on the gas handle, something I have gotten better at with time. This time it was too sharp a turn at too quick a pace because the next thing I know the driver seat which wasn’t properly latched had turned around to the transfer position and I was now facing T.J. who had turned to face me before both turning in unison towards the windshield and yelling, “ShiiiIT!” I have a snapshot in my mind of this moment before impact staring down upon the approaching ground just feet from the bumper.

We hit bumper first and instead of flipping violently bounced twice out into the field before stopping. My entire body was tingling. I suppose that’s what shock feels like. “Are you OK?”, T.J. asked. I looked up at him from the floor board space between the driver and the passenger seat, “Yeah.” Then it occurred to me, “The CD player didn’t even skip.” We agreed first to go were the stack of ash trays from Hardee’s that perfectly fit the backseat cup holders. Here we were in just in the worst accident of our lives and our main concern was hiding our smoking. We were then going to brush ourselves off, drive our way out of the field and go to the nearest carwash. That was the plan anyway until a concerned passerby in his pickup truck stopped to help us and I began to feel faint. I suppose I did since the next thing I know I’m sweating in a pickup truck that smells of the wet dogs the man had moved to the bed of the truck and the homemade beef jerky roasting in the sun on the dashboard. I closed my eyes and tried to breathe as little as possible. When I opened my eyes again I was on a stiff couch in a strange house. My vision was spotty, like when you rub your eyes really hard, and I could have sworn the whole house of void of any color. I looked up and saw silhouette of mom in the doorway.

It wasn’t until I reached the hospital that I started feeling this intense pain in my stomach. The orange juice laced with iodine wasn’t much help. Though the juice was room temperature the iodine felt like ice as it traveled down my esophagus and settled in my stomach. Then I noticed it wasn’t my stomach that was hurting it was my entire abdomen. Later seeing the huge dent I had left in the steering wheel there was no wonder I was in pain. Luckily x-rays showed no problems and I was released to a very concerned and angry mother. T.J.’s mom trying to lighten my mother’s mood mentioned how it was scary now, but one day we’d be able to look back on it differently.

The next day I awoke with more stiffness and soreness than I had ever felt. I called T to see how he was doing. He was also not wearing his seatbelt and had hit his head pretty good against the roof of the van just above the windshield. He was fine other than maybe a bump and some tenderness. “Dude, we could have died.”, he remarked. “Yeah, but we lived the Duke’s of Hazard dream.”