The History Of Me

Heroes and clowns, holdin’ my ground.

When I first moved to Denver, I was more than a little nervous about city driving.  At eighteen years old, I had been driving for less than a thousand days, so my driving experience, in general, was already minimal.  Include the fact that the worst traffic in my home town of Alamosa, was the moment when multiple cars arrived at a four way stop sign at the same time, and you’re left with a guy who really should have stuck it out in the suburbs for awhile before venturing out into unmarked sectors.  Kids will be kids, though, and one day my brother and I had to mix it up and do a little D-town exploring.

This endeavor started out favorably enough.  He and I, a couple of suave dudes cruising the streets of Denver in a cherry brown 1980 Subaru GL sedan, decided to tour the metropolis that we had recently made our home.  I can still remember the cool breeze blowing through the rolled down windows and the gentle hum of the imported four cylinder engine.  We were overwhelmed with the sheer size of the city and were haphazardly sightseeing, randomly making turns and delving deeper and deeper into unfamiliar territory.  The streets were packed with rush hour commuters, but my brother and I, listlessly looking for jobs, were completely oblivious to the hustle and bustle attitude of the Denver drivers.  In short, we were on a Sunday cruise.

I, being the driver, was making every attempt possible to avoid the highways, since I knew that I would quickly get myself lost if I got off on the wrong exit, so I essentially shit my pants when I accidently turned onto an on-ramp to I-70.  I was heading north on Peoria when I entered the on-ramp, and realized immediately that I needed to change directions.  As I approached the highway, I noticed an intersecting piece of road that, unbeknownst to me at the time, was the on-ramp for the southbound Peoria traffic.  I made a quick judgment call and quickly mashed on the breaks in an effort to make a near impossible left turn that would have, if done successfully, led me directly into oncoming traffic.  Instead, a semi truck, the driver most likely upset with my erratic driving and following way to closely, smashed into the back of my tiny car.

Since I was in the initial stages of making an absurd left turn, the truck clipped the rear left corner of the Suby.  The car went into a spin, and I remember my brother and I bouncing our heads off of each other before coming to a stop in the middle of the road.  We sat in the stalled car for a moment or two, befuddled about the events that had just transpired, before I noticed the truck driver approaching the car.  I stepped out to let him know I was okay and to inspect the damage.  As soon as I got out of the car, however, I could tell that he was not happy with me.  His anger was obvious by the tone in his voice when he asked me, “What the fuck were you doing?” 

I, still a little bit in shock, hadn’t quite thought the situation through enough, and quickly rebutted with, “I was turning around.”

“You can’t turn around!” 

Touché.

It suddenly hit me.  I made a dumbshit turn and caused the accident.  Wait. I made a dumbshit turn, caused the accident, and just admitted it.  And even worse, I made a dumbshit turn, caused the accident, admitted it, and I don’t have car insurance!  Fuck!

A tow truck (shocking!) was the first on the scene.  The driver approached me and my brother immediately and offered to let us sit in his air-conditioned truck.  We accepted.

“What the Hell happened?”

“I didn’t want to get on the highway so I was going to turn and….”

“You can’t turn there.”

“Yeah, I know that now.”

“Well, don’t tell the cops that.  He ran into you, so he’ll get the ticket.  Just don’t say you were turning around.”

“OK.”

That’s how I found myself sitting in the back of a police car with the truck driver, lying to a cop.  The truck driver, angrily, told his part of the story, including my dumb confession, and I recapitulated, cleverly adding, “I was turning my head around to see if there were any cars coming.”  As you can imagine, the truck driver became furious.

“You didn’t say that!  You said that you were turning around!”

“I was turning around…..to see if there were any cars coming,” I said, calmly.

“No!  Look how your car was hit!  You said you where turning around!  Officer, look at the way his car was hit!”

Officer had had enough.  His reprimand was brief but to the point.  He sternly explained that I had the right to slam on my brakes for the most petty of reasons, and that he, being behind me, was responsible for leaving adequate stopping room between us.  For this reason, he would receive a violation for following to closely.  The driver attempted to interrupt, but was shot down quickly by the cop who threatened to write him a ticket for the larger offense of reckless driving.  He bit his tongue and took his medicine.

I also received a ticket; no proof of insurance.  The car was towed to a nearby dealership, and, after the trucking company offered me a check for 1500 dollars, I quickly settled, since he was pushing the insurance thing, and continued to drive the wrecked Subaru after getting insured and having my charges dropped.  The adjuster had also informed me that the truck driver had a poor driving record and had been laid off, something I felt very bad about.  I also felt bad, though, that I didn’t have insurance, ‘cause I coulda got a Hell of a lot more money.