It was an accident
“It was an accident.”
These were the feeble words that Arthur could muster for the police officers, who were trying to deduce how one goes about crashing a Subaru WRX into a tree at 40 mph on a residential road. I’m sitting pretzel-style on the side of the gravel road, blood dripping down my face as an EMT combs through my hair, picking out shards of glass from my scalp like a mother chimpanzee. Max stands to my side looking on the scene with palpable remorse. I listen on with wary apprehension as Arthur delivers his statement to the officers, wondering to myself how he will maneuver around their questions, given the crash is so blatantly our own fault.
“I took the turn a little too fast, and I slammed on the accelerator instead of the brakes,” Arthur sheepishly explains to the policemen. The Subaru lies cartoonishly flattened against the tree - it’s as if the whole front of the vehicle has been hit with a giant ACME sledgehammer, the roof caved in the front forming a somber brow, with a cavernous socket where there used to be a front windshield.
“You do realize this was a blind turn?” One of the officers chastises. “Had there been another vehicle approaching, you could have seriously injured another party.”
“I grossly underestimated my vehicle’s traction on the gravel,” Arthur laments. “I see the consequences of my error and can assure you it will never happen again.”
The police seem dubious to accept Arthur’s statement, but I can tell their patience has waivered too much for them to further challenge any of the grossly absent details from his claim. The police don’t even go so far as to deliver a warning - they simply retreat to their vehicles and withdraw from the scene without further questioning.
Meanwhile, the EMT has loaded me onto a stretcher in a neck brace with my head fastened into place in a Frankenstein-esque attempt to prevent further injury. The EMT suspects that I may have slammed my head against the rear windshield upon collision, and so she begins to ask me questions to jog my memory.
“Who is the president?” She asks me, shining a bright light into my right eye.
“A bombastic imbecile.” I quip.
“What day of the week is it?” She shines the bright light into my left eye.
“I want to say Tuesday? But I’m on vacation time, so forgive me if that date is incorrect, I don’t think it relates to a head injury.”
“Tuesday is correct.” She pauses to take my vitals. “Your friends will need to ride separately, but they can meet you at the hospital,” she assures me.
As the ambulance doors close and we take off toward the hospital, I hear the muffled sounds of the siren from inside of the van, and am finally able to let out a stiff chuckle on account of the comically careless decision-making that led to this crash.
Not even an hour earlier, Arthur is guilt-tripping me to join him on a quick drive into town to pick-up a last-minute prescription before heading on the road back to Philadelphia. “If you won’t go with me, at least admit that you hate me,” he lambastes, “just tell me that you can’t stand me, that you wish I’d hurl myself onto some train tracks and wait until my own oblivion.”
I shrug off the absurdity of his remarks and agree to accompany him on one last trip into town. Besides, at this point I’ve already got a good buzz from the Irish coffees I’ve been throwing back all morning, and could use a change of scenery to abstain from falling back asleep. I hop into the backseat of the Subaru, Arthur at the wheel, Max in the passenger seat.
“Hey Max,” Arthur asks, “how does one go about drifting along these gravel roads?”
“Oh, easy,” Max confidently replies, “as you round the turn, just gas it.”
Arthur throws the car into gear, and we approach the first turn, which winds around a set of trees obstructing the view around the bend. Arthur slams on the accelerator and the car drifts along the turn, gravel popping and crunching underneath the bed of the car.
“Nailed it,” Arthur proudly exclaims.
“That’s good,” Max tells him, “but this time just give it a bit more gas before the next turn.”
As we’re nearing the second turn, I snap out of the Irish Coffee-endured buzz just long enough to caution, “This is a dangerous blind turn!” But by the time I get the words out in the open, it’s too late - Arthur has slammed on the accelerator, and turned the wheel, and we’re winding around the gravel road. The car begins to fishtail, bringing my passenger seat into direct line of fire with an encroaching tree. Arthur slams the wheel to the right to correct the turn, bringing the hood of the car directly into the base of an unflinching oak tree.
All of the windows in the car explode upon collision. Airbags fully inflate. Smoke billows out of the engine, and the scene reeks of burnt rubber and gas. I climb out the backseat across a sea of shattered glass, Arthur and Max having already escaped through the front driver-side door. The Subaru sits in shambles against the unmoved oak tree.
“I think you gave it too much gas,” Max tells Arthur. I collapse into a pretzel seat on the side of the road, as I feel blood start to pool and drip near my temple. Max begins to walk away from the scene of the crash.
“Where are you going,” says Arthur?
“Gonna go back and chill out at the house,” Max calmly replies.
“Dude, you can’t just walk away from the scene of an accident. We’ve got to call for help.”
“Oh.” Max replies. “Then I guess I’ll wait here.”
Arthur pulls out his cell phone and dials 911, informing the dispatcher of our location and circumstance. I’m looking at the tip of my nose as blood continuously pools and drips onto the gravel in between my legs. Arthur hangs up the phone and turns to me.
“Casey, how are you doing over there, bud?”
I survey the wreckage. I look up at Arthur, and then over to Max. While I’m completely mortified of the events that have just transpired, I’m relieved that we’re all out of the vehicle, virtually unscathed. I think about how, in later years, we’ll casually joke about this near-death experience, both in good-humor and as a stark reminder to refrain from Evel Kneivel-caliber idiocy in future outings. I raise my right hand, throw-up some devil horns, and let out a bashful smile.
“My dude,” Arthur chuckles. “I’m so sorry about all of this. It was an accident.”