The fucking car has died again. It is a poorly made automobile. I know this, but my gut says it’s my fault, I didn’t take proper care of the car, I should know more about cars, I should have been able to keep it going. But now I have to push the fucking car up a serious hill. I can do it; I had to do it a few weeks ago. Had to push it up an incline in a parking lot while simultaneously steering it into a parking space. It was not fun, but I did it, and got a strained calf for the trouble. But I can’t leave the car where it is, and I’m not going to let it roll backward down the hill, so there’s nothing to do but get to pushing.
And I do push it up the hill. I may not yet be ready for those shows on ESPN where impossibly large Nordic men with too many consonants in their names strap jet planes on their back and run obstacle courses, but the fucking car is on top of the hill. All I have to do is hop in and steer the car gently down the hill and hope there’s a place on the street for me to leave it.
Only, I don’t hop in. As I’m thinking about this, I realize I have in fact pushed too hard and the car is going to go straight over the top of the hill and down the other side. I have a split second to contemplate what a terrible, terrible thing this is before the car does in fact pull away from me and start making its way, driverless, down the hill. Even as I watch in horror, I am amazed that thus far the car seems to be staying in its lane. By the time it gets to the intersection at the bottom of the hill it has picked up some speed. It runs right through the red light and miraculously does not hit the two cars already proceeding through the intersection. It veers to the left, goes up over the curb, and begins to roll over. Strangely I do not hear the sound of metal scraping and twisting and glass breaking as I watch, stunned, from the top of the hill. Luckily the car has gone over the curb into a muddy vacant lot being prepared for new construction. No damage to anything but the car, and sweet Jesus, no one was hurt. Fuck the fucking car. No one was hurt.
I’m asleep in my bed. A restless, troubled sleep. Not uncommon. And considering the car episode, not so surprising. The phone rings and I am inclined to let it ring, but I remember the car and figuring it could be important I answer. It’s my mom. She has that tone she often has on the phone: she doesn’t want to bother me, but I can tell it’s important and she is trying to be reassuring. She’s saying something about the state of the car, totaled I assume, how could it have been anything else. Then she says: and they buried your dad. What? My mind starts trying to rouse itself from slumber. What did you say? They went ahead and buried him now she says, we’ll have some sort of service soon. What the fuck is going on? My dad has a million ailments and complaints, but he’s fine. I talked to him a week ago. I feel panic rising in my muscles. Mom says he was in the car. What? He was in the car. It’s ok, it wasn’t your fault. But he was not in the car, I was in the car and he was not. Mom’s tone is trying real hard to keep me calm. He was in the car and he didn’t survive. She is not kidding. I cannot describe the physical sensation I am feeling. I am picturing the car going over the curb, flipping and rolling, twisting and tearing, thinking about what it would do to someone inside the car. Every muscle is my body is tense, ready to explode, I cannot see. Please tell me I am having a fucking nightmare I cry into the phone. Please tell me I am having a nightmare with tears streaming down my face. But here I am in my bed awake. How can I be asleep when I am in bed on the phone? I don’t sleep well, I don’t sleep much, my dreams are very vivid, often lucid, my brain seems to work overtime to keep me asleep, to keep me from waking up. And now I am awake. And now I am awake. And convinced my father is dead. I look at the phone afraid to touch it. I am awake. No one was hurt.
