Crash Into Me

So remember my last entry, when I spilled someone else's salad and wore a sweater that wasn't appropriate for the weather and I was all "god, I'm having the WORST DAY EVER." Remember that? Yeah, well, apparently I need to revise my opinion of Worst Days Ever, because it seems that Worst Days Ever really aren't Worst Days Ever unless they involve a trip to the police department and two totally inebriated men---one with no top teeth, oh you think I'm kidding---who crash into the back of your car when you're stopped at a stoplight AND THEN TRY TO FLIRT WITH YOU, LIKE HELLO, THIS IS REALLY NOT THE TIME.

And it seems that in order to really qualify for this day to be a Worst Day Ever, these redneck men---and here I'd just like to point out again for those at the back who might have missed it, that one of them HAD NO TOP TEETH---have to try to offer you various amounts of cash, ranging from fifty to a thousand dollars, in exchange for you not going to the police, and then just for good measure, tell you they have a gun in their truck. And, by the way, this all has to take place in an abandoned lot right off the side of the road, in a neighborhood that can only really politely be called THE HOOD, and it has to be getting steadily darker as the men get steadily more belligerent. Oh, and also your boyfriend has to be away snowboarding in Tahoe until Tuesday, where apparently cell phones don't ring, they only go straight to voicemail. Finally, I should mention that this hellish scenario has to occur on a Friday afternoon when you're driving home from work after a rough week, and you're sitting at the stoplight, waiting for it to turn green and thinking about what you'll wear tonight to see this new play you managed to score free tickets to, but obviously won't actually get to go to in the end because you'll be AT THE POLICE STATION instead.

(You know, that part was kind of funny actually. When I called the theatre to tell them I wouldn't be picking up my tickets from the box office that evening, I was so flustered that I said "Hello, I have some tickets for tonight under the name of My Very Prominent Company, but I won't be able to make it to the play because I have to go to the police station." Which sounded like I'd been caught for shoplifting and was being brought in for questioning. The girl on the other end of the line gave a polite laugh and kindly changed the tickets to tomorrow night. And then probably called security to have them keep an eye on me in case I tried to stuff a couple of extra programs into my purse.)

So anyway, there was a car accident. And it was awful, because car accidents are just by their very nature awful. But I think this one was particularly awful because I really played no part in it at all! I did not see any action! I did not get the starring role that involves slamming on the brakes, or skidding, or even, you know, BEING IN MOTION. I think it's actually a misnomer for me to refer to it as a "car accident," since that implies that I was in some way INVOLVED and wasn't just SITTING THERE at the red light, waiting for it to go green. Seriously, I'd been sitting there for about ten or fifteen seconds when these drunk idiots just careened down the exit of the freeway---which is a long and straight one, I mean you can see that there's another car waiting at the light as soon as you get onto the exit---and slammed into the back of me.

And here is the worst part: I didn't even call the police when it happened. I was so shaken up and surprised, and I didn't know what to do, and these men were so frightening with their "don't call the police" business and their "yeah, haha, we always carry guns" business and their "hey, you're lucky we didn't just drive off; if you hadn't been so cute, we wouldn't have stopped" business. Also there was the standing too close and swaying business, the liquor breath business, the oh- my-god-I- am- on- the-wrong- side- of- the- tracks- with- two- scary-men-and-I- am- not- going- to- antagonize-them- by-calling- the-police- and- then- having- to- wait- around- with-them-until-the- police-arrive business. And yet in my fluster, I decided that SOMEONE needed to be there and he needed to be male, so I called this random guy from work who I only ever really say an occasional hello to in the halls, because all my other guy friends were not answering their phones, or on their way to interviews, or IN BLOODY TAHOE. I took the insurance information of the drunk redneck guys and also their telephone number, and all the time I was shaking like a leaf, and also very surreally sort of being hit on by these scary drunk rednecks who had just SMASHED INTO MY CAR---"your boyfriend isn't picking up his phone? Man, if you were calling me, I'd pick up every time!"---and it was really just a very, very horrible scenario.

So then I went home and called my parents because yes, even though I am 26 next week, my first impulse is still to call my parents when anything bad happens, and I woke them up because it was 7am in Singapore, and they both said "GO TO THE POLICE!" And so I grabbed my poor friend Melissa who had been expecting a trip to the theatre with me tonight and instead got a trip to the police department, and we went and made the acquaintance of Officer Pham, who was totally no help at all. AND YES, I should have called the police immediately, but I was frightened, and that was stupid of me. Also stupid: I inadvertently told these men where I worked---I had it in my head that I need to build a rapport with them, make some small talk, get them to stick around while I got the all-important insurance details and license plate. I think this is because my Nancy Drew instincts kicked in, and I had read somewhere about how you should make the person who is robbing you at the ATM or holding a gun to your head in a field see you as a person, so that they maybe feel kind of bad about killing you. But maybe it's not the best idea to divulge the place where you work to someone who may potentially hate you because he will soon have to pay for a new back door on your almost-new Jeep Liberty. Maybe it will also seem like a good idea for you to call the number he gives you from your cell phone, just to test that it's a real number, but guess what? Now this means that The Man Who Will Soon Hate You has your telephone number. And will call you, either to scream at you, or (worse) to maybe try and hit on you more.

And I just feel so angry about the whole thing. I'm so angry at the injustice of it because here is the thing: I had a small accident in July which was most probably my fault, and even though it wasn't particularly serious, it totally shook me up, and since then I have probably been the World's Most Careful Driver. I stop for, like, six whole minutes at stop signs. I practically hyperventilate if I have to change lanes and I check my mirror eight times before I do it. I always leave a gap of about fourteen cars. I never talk on my cell phone when I'm driving. And I NEVER, EVER, EVER drive if I've been drinking, not even if I've had one glass of wine, because I just don't want to take the chance.

So this seems grossly unfair. Then again, I guess I do have all my top teeth. So there's that.