The first Honda Civics rolled
off the assembly line in 1972. Japan had big aspirations for its new compact.
It was cute, reliable, and affordable…kind of like my first girlfriend. My 1978
Honda Civic was actually my second vehicle. My first was a ‘66 VW Bug I bought
for $400 – not realizing it didn’t have a floor. But that’s a different story,
back to the Honda. It was only 2 years old, and I was graduating high school.
We spent a lot of time going
to the local drive-in. On Friday nights we went with a bunch of guys and just
drank beer, hung out, and never really watched the movie. On Saturday nights we
took our girlfriends. We ate popcorn, drank beer, and never really watched the
movie. Driving home late one night, a deer ran out in front of me. I avoided
the ditch but try as I may I couldn’t avoid the deer. When I first purchased
the insurance, the agent told me that if I ever have an accident to call him
first. Nine days later, I called him at 3am, “Hey, how’s it going?”.
After I got it repaired, I was
driving to work one morning, and pulling into the gas station I noticed I had a
flat tire. Distracted by the tire, I forgot to put the gas cap back on after
filling up. I located the spare tire which laid in the belly of the hatchback.
It was inflated but there wasn’t a lot of tread left on it. On my way to work
the next morning, the rain was pouring down and had built up on the roads. The
poorly treaded tire caused me to hydroplane and I lost control of the car
hitting the ditch and rolling into the woods. It’s true what they say when you
roll a car, it’s over quickly but in the middle of it it’s definitely in slow
motion. Like a carnival ride, I could imagine hearing the Carnie’s voice in my
head saying, “Please don’t leave your seat ‘til the ride comes to a full and
complete stop”. Was I in one piece? Anything broken? Any blood? I suddenly
remembered about the gas tank cap, and I was upside down. I knew I needed to
get out in a hurry. To this day I don’t know how I got out. I landed on wet
grass. I was soaked, somewhat in shock, and didn’t even realize I was hurt
until I tried to stand — and I couldn’t. Something definitely happened to my
back.
I continued to crawl up out of
the ditch but just before I reached the top, I fell over backwards. A car
diving by saw my flailing arm and stopped to help. The poor guy was more upset
than I was. He was making ME nervous. There were no cell phones in those days,
so he had to drive to get help. Fortunately, the ambulance station was located
just up the road.
Being an ambulance driver in a
small village meant you weren’t very busy. The attendant had three jobs; a part
time EMT, bicycle mechanic, and he ran a bootlegging business on the weekends.
He told my rescuer he would come and get me as soon as he finished his
cigarette — as you weren’t allowed to smoke in the ambulance.
By now, I was visibly shaking
and probably somewhat in shock. But not enough to not think about giving the
attendant a humorous answer when he asked, “What’s your name, son?” I
thought, David Cassidy, no Hank Arron. Oh wait — I’m not Black. I
quickly thought better of it and gave him my real name. He loaded me in and
away we went. Although, we did have to stop for gas.
When we finally arrived at the
hospital, initially, I was not too concerned. The doctor and nurses quickly
went to work. I was strapped to a board and not allowed to move. Upon reading
my x-rays the experience started to shift. They were very concerned with my
back. The spare tire that I neglected to fasten down the day before had flown
up when I rolled the car and hit me in the back compressing three vertebrae.
Next, my x-rays were sent to a specialist, and I had to lay on my back not
moving until further notice. I was freaking. I was told not to move. After 48
hours I got the news. We were out of the woods and there would be no paralysis.
However, the damage was done, and my lifestyle would be somewhat limited.
Due to the stress, I hadn’t
had a bowel movement in 3 days. The nurse decided it was time and gave me an
enema. I still wasn’t allowed to leave the bed. I asked her how she intended
for me to do this? She brought me a bedpan. I was mortified. How was I supposed
to get this done? She offered her help, but I was adamant about being alone
during this special event. When the time finally arrived, there was no stopping
it. Oh, it was lofty. One bedpan wasn’t enough. Remember, I was only 19, talk
about awkward. When the session was over, I had maxed out the bedpan. It was
all over the bed — and all over me. I was so embarrassed I wanted to jump out
he window. But of course, I wasn’t allowed out of bed. I was instructed to
leave it on the stand beside the bed and she would be back to retrieve
it. How could I expose that? I thought. How could this
be the result of one person? It looked like all four patients in the
room had contributed to this poop party.
Not knowing what else to do, I
neatly gift wrapped it with an entire roll of toilet paper. When she came back
to pick it up, I had the covers pulled over my head. I heard her laughing as
she entered the room, “Oh, a present for me?”, she asked. Good Lord. But this
isn’t the accident I wanted to tell you about.
Thirty years later, I was
driving an 11-year-old 1994 Dodge Neon and the clutch was shot. I was pursuing
the purchase of a new vehicle but remained undecided. This particular day I
wanted to visit my parents 60 miles away and couldn’t find a rental. So, I
added up the starts and stops, and surmised I could make the trip without a
clutch.
Getting there was a breeze!
After the day-long visit, the drive home went perfect for the first 10 miles.
Impressed, I thought maybe I should keep the car for a while longer. Afterall,
it had new tires, no rust, and it worked well. I decided to call a local
salvage company to inquire about a second-hand clutch. While I was on hold the
car suddenly shut down and I pulled off to the shoulder. I stepped out of the
car and paced alongside while awaiting the employee’s return. After about 30
paces I turned around and the hood looked like it was rippling, like waves were
moving under the paint. At first, I thought I was seeing things. Oh no! I think
my car is on fire! By the time I walked back to the car there were flames
jumping from the hood.
Just then a power truck came
by, and the driver offered to try to put it out, but his extinguisher was empty
— the flames grew. I was nervous remembering I had a full tank of gas. I called
911. The village only had a volunteer fire department, so I thought it might be
a bit before anyone showed up. In about 15 minutes an emergency vehicle
arrived. The tires were blowing up, and half the car was on fire by now. The
guy was dressed head to toe in full protective gear. When he got out of the
emergency vehicle, which had no water by the way, he stood in the middle of the
road, did a 360 circle as if he was looking for something, then hollered out
“Someone said there was a car on fire?” I couldn’t help but answer “I haven’t
seen anything!”.
By the time the firetruck
arrived, the car was done — well, overdone. The crowd dispersed; the show was
over. I started walking. The good news? The time for me to buy a new car was
bumped up to right now.
Since that day I’ve bought
five brand-new Jeeps, and someone has crashed into every single one. The last
one was t-boned and written off. I finally gave up trying to keep a new vehicle
accident-free and bought a 16-year-old Ford Ranger. Now that I drive an old
wreck, I can’t get anybody to run into me. I drive alone.
