Find Me At the Gates
Part One: My Imagined Car Wreck
11 April 2012 Wednesday
I walked through the cement jungle parking structure, straight to my car and got in. The BMW passed to me when my father died and it's been a good, reliable car for me for twenty-three years. The car was silver (like my hair now) and I had always enjoyed driving it. The engine purred with a sense of urgency. The music from the stereo sounded as clear as if it were playing in my own living room.
My plan was to leave the office to do a few errands, including a stop at the University Medical Center to pick up information for the project I was working on. Everything was on track. Even though I felt more like a figurehead than a facilitator, they said they appreciated my contributions over the last month since I became involved.
Soon I found myself stuck in traffic on Santa Monica Boulevard. The light was still green when I inched into the intersection to attempt a left turn and head north.
This had been my old neighborhood in the 1990s, so I usually enjoyed driving through. Suddenly a squealing of tires and crash of metal filled the air. I held the steering wheel, unsure of what was happening. Everything was a blur behind my gasping for breath and cry for help. Perhaps I'd had a premonition there would be an accident, but no, this was just going to be a pleasant drive through West Los Angeles.
The scene was bathed in utter darkness as people ran toward the car. I felt around for the door handle. I knew it was still daylight, but my peripheral vision was gone. A truck sat in the middle of the intersection with a twisted fender and broken headlight. Horns honked and finally sirens started and grew louder as they approached. Cacophony, shouts, crying; poor me, pinned helplessly behind the steering wheel, looking at faces pressed against the window. Daylight gradually returned, the sirens faded into the distance.
"I can't get out," I screamed, trying to roll down the window.
A man wearing brown slacks and a white, long sleeved shirt came out of the crowd. He opened the door and knelt beside me. The onlookers seemed to pull back.
"You aren't hurt too badly, are you dear?" He had cheerful eyes, red hair and a drunken smile.
"I can't tell."
"Your car isn't badly damaged. If you have the fender replaced, that should fix 'er up."
"But I'm trapped. Look at that truck over there." But when I looked at the intersection again, it was clear. Traffic was moving smoothly again.
"You had your seatbelt on," the man said. "Just undo it."
I pushed the release button, causing the belt to retract, and suddenly I was free to get out. A few more deep breaths made me feel more relaxed. Perhaps the car wasn't hurt too badly. But my hands were shaking.
"Let's see if you can walk."
The man offered his hand, assisting me out of the car. The fender was badly damaged, but there was no other evidence of an accident. What about the other driver?
"Let's think about you, huh?" the man said, as if in response to my thoughts. His eyes seemed to convey sympathy and warmth.
I nodded, unable to speak.
"What should we do about your car? How about this: get in and we'll see if it drives. It would be best to get it off the road, don't you think?" He led me around to the passenger side and helped me get in, before settling himself into the driver's seat. He started the car and drove carefully, completing my left turn and pulling into the driveway of a business establishment. He parked and turned off the motor.
I looked at the sign above the door of the building. "It's a body shop. Can you believe our luck?"
"Yes, we're just lucky today. Look, I have another appointment, or I would stay." He gave my hand a reassuring squeeze, then turned and started off down the street.
It seemed a miracle. I felt fine, except for a jittery feeling and a dent in my fender. The body shop had four service bays, each with a wide garage door. Dozens of cars filled the parking lot; some of them badly damaged. Wishing I'd never come back to L.A., I sat there dazed, missing India.
