Accident

Christmas Eve. We were driving home sometime during the early hours of the morning -- and what a night it had been. Abdullah, my neighbour, who was driving us both home yawned, as the music blared through the car’s speakers. Although we didn’t celebrate Christmas, the rest of the city did, so it was a good opportunity to capitalize on the fun. The tinted windows halfway down, a cool breeze caressed the inside of the car. I lit a cigarette first and offered him one, which he gratefully accepted. We were nearing our neighborhood when we reached the bit of construction that was taking place at the end of the highway.

The roadworks had been ongoing seemingly forever, so much so that the awkward, winding S-curves the diversions would force the driver into now felt natural, as if this were the way the highway was designed to be. They city was building some sort of bizarre tunnel/bridge combo.

Abdullah was navigating the car through the first of the unlit S-turns of the roadworks, when I heard a high pitched whine which, at first, I mistook for part of the song that was playing. As it increased in pitch and volume, it became apparent it was coming from somewhere ahead in the distance. I turned down the music.

“You hear that? Sounds like somebody screaming”, I said.

Abdullah shut the music off completely, listened intently, and said, “It’s a car horn”.

The engine’s melodic rumble came alive as we raced through the familiar S-turns, tracking the origin of the sound. At first, nothing; only the high-pitched horn screaming louder and louder. Then, around the corner of the seventh turn, the taillights of a car that had crashed into the barricade, a single man buried under its hood attempting desperately to disconnect the battery.

We stopped the car in the middle of the road, got out, and killed the battery - silence. The three of us were the only waking beings for miles in all directions.

The Englishman stumbled backwards. “Thank you”, he said. “I don’t know a lot about cars”, he added, forcing a laugh.

I could smell the alcohol oozing from his breath. “What a cliché”, I thought. “A drunk foreigner on Christmas.”

“You okay, bro?”, Abdullah asked him. “Drinking, ha?”, a wry smile wrapped around his face.

It was obvious. The foreigner, clearly panicked and surprised by the question, anxiously investigated us both with his eyes, locked both his hands over his head, as if in surrender, and lied.

“No of course not”, he scoffed. “Just an accident. I didn’t see, I was on my phone.”

Abdullah laughed.

“Don’t worry, bro”, he interrupted. “We’ve all done this at least once. It’s okay. No problem. Don’t be scared.”

He looked at me, pointed to the car and said, “Get the water and chewing gum”.

I walked back to our car thinking, “Why the hell are we helping him? He’s not in any immediate danger, the police will be here soon. We shouldn’t be here. He probably deserves what happens next”.

I thought about what would happen next. It was a zero-tolerance policy on drunk driving in our city. He’d be in prison for a long time.

I rummaged around the car and picked up a water bottle, a packet of chewing gum and the half-empty thermos of lukewarm coffee we’d been drinking when we left our homes earlier that night.

Abdullah snatched the items from my hands, handed the man the water bottle and instructed him to drink. The foreigner greedily gulped down the entire thing, as if he had been handed his salvation. Then, Abdullah offered the packet of chewing gum and coffee, smiled, and said, “Merry Christmas”.

The man’s eyes lit up like a little boy. There was a chance at hope - he’d sober up, mask the smell of alcohol, charm the unsuspecting policemen, wake up in his bed the next morning and gladly deal with the minor nuisance of towing and repairing his car. He nearly cried.

Abdullah, being the pragmatic character that he was, interrupted the man’s internal celebration by asking, “Have you got any alcohol in the car? In case the cops search?”

The foreigner only managed a weak “uhm” as the gravity of his situation violently yanked him back into reality.

“No problem”, Abdullah interrupted, “I’ll check for you”, he added assuringly, and made his way to the passenger door of the crippled car a few feet away. “Talk to him. Calm him down”, he said to me, unlocking the door.

It was then I learned the distraught foreigner’s name was Michael, that he was an accountant, was new to the city, lived in a nice neighborhood and had simply become lost on his way home from a friend’s Christmas party. Unfamiliar with the roadworks, he hit the barricade while fumbling with the GPS on his phone.

I felt sympathy for him.

After all, he didn’t hurt anyone. Perhaps he’ll learn his lesson and never drive under the influence ever again. Surely, we’ve done a good thing here, haven’t we?

Abdullah emerged from the car, having found nothing, shook the man’s hand, wished him the best of luck, told him not to worry and remain calm, and finally, reassured him that he seemed sober and there was no longer the smell of alcohol on him.

We drove off. I’m sure I saw flashes of blue and red lights somewhere in the distance. Fifteen minutes later we were home, I was still thinking about Michael. I hope he made it out alright - there was a good chance, after all. He seemed lucid enough when I left him, and he was a likeable fellow, perhaps the police didn’t suspect a thing, or if they did, they decided to let him go.

Abdullah drove past my house. “Where are you going?”, I asked.

“Hang on.”

He dug his hand into his pocket, smiling, pulled out a black leather wallet, removed the driver’s license and vehicle registration, and proceeded to read aloud, “Michael Foles. Scotland. Born in 1992.”

He tossed them out of the window, pulled out the cash, and threw the entire wallet out.

“Not even enough for a pack of cigarettes. What an idiot.”