Seriously: what the hell is this road?
Anybody else start the day with their airbag blowing up on them and burning their arms, face and chest? No one?
I feel like I always get to have all the fun and people must be really jealous of me.
This has been an extra dramatic week for about ten different reasons. Ever since the earthquake (I know, I know: “earthquake”), everything has been tumultuous.
Like last Tuesday I parked my car in the middle of a street fight and got pulled into the lobby of one of the nearby public housing projects by some extraordinarily kind neighborhood women until the police arrived. And then the next morning I found a bloody t-shirt on my car.
Also I was forgetful a lot this past week, in significant ways, which had repercussions.
And I ate and drank too much during the hurricane (like everyone else) (I know, I know: “hurricane”), because obviously when one is possibly going to be without power for a week (not even close, like my cable flickered for a second), it is justification to eat and drink too much.
Then my dog, my beloved little monster, was a total punk on two occasions, and it looks like he’s going to be muzzled, because I am running out of options here.
Not to mention I have been working through my copyedits which – and I realize how pathetic this sounds, please trust that I do – might possibly be more dangerous to my soul than any of the above.
I have been distracted, and unable to get anything done. I have three book ideas and can’t seem to pick one and run with it. I haven’t really been exercising, which makes me sad and is actually kind of harmful to me. Every day I wake up and think this is going to be the day when I turn the corner. Every day, I promise you, I make myself have a fresh start. And every day I am wrong.
And today – after the dog was a huge jerk to someone at the dog run early this morning – I just thought to myself: this does not have to dictate your entire day. Get in your car, and drive away from your problems; go to the cafe that is five neighborhoods away, and read your book, and try to write something fresh and new. Just leave your house behind for a while and everything will be fine.
So I drove down Berry toward Greenpoint, and as I crossed the intersection at Metropolitan – slowly, mind you, because the road has been screwed up there for weeks, uneven, pothole-laden, and there’s no way around the mess, you have to just drive through it – my car hit some weird bump or another, hard, really hard, and my head bumped the roof of my car, and the airbag blew up all over me and began to smoke, and the car stopped flat in the intersection.
I sat there, dazed for a few minutes, wishing someone would tell me what to do. That’s sincerely what I was thinking: Can someone please tell me what to do? And then someone did! Because the car was smoking, and also, the transmission now had a huge hole in it and was leaking fluid everywhere, and this man who got me out and away from the car thought it was going to blow up.
Nice strangers came and helped me, including this really sweet guy I already knew from the dog run, which, even though I barely know him, don’t even know his name, completely qualified as a familiar face. A woman offered me water, and to stay with me. (Who are you nice woman? Thank you.) Some other neighbors told me they had seen FIVE accidents in the past week in the intersection, three of them airbag-related. Like I can’t even tell you how awesome people are in my neighborhood. Seriously. This is home.
I was really out of it (and still am). I was asked my social security number by a police officer and gave my phone number instead. I kept misplacing my phone and my camera and cried when I couldn’t find them. An ambulance came and checked me out and gave me an ice pack. Everything hurt. I kept shaking my hands. What a strange burn it was. It crept up on me in the strangest ways, like an exotic pepper.
The police officers took care of me and stayed with me until the tow truck came. They even drove me home. The female police officer, the one with the infectious giggle who was just a few months away from retirement, was an angel.
I joked with her that all I had wanted was a cup of coffee and to read my book and look what happened, and she said, “That sounds so good to me! I never get to have a cup of coffee and read a book!” She has three daughters, she told me, and when all the girls are downstairs watching television, and she sneaks up to her room to read, they all come upstairs to see her, one by one, even the dog, and they won’t leave her alone. “I’m like the hen and they’re little chickens,” she said. “They probably like hanging out with you,” I said, because I knew I did. Then she talked to me about how her job had changed in the past few years, which was pretty interesting. I thought she was righteous and really respected her.
Finally I made it home, and still, like a fool, I thought to myself: You can still save this day. You have not had your coffee yet. Get some coffee. So I went out one more time, to my local, and bought a coffee and sat with my book for a delicious eight minutes before the mechanic called. It would be $1,600 to fix the car. I would need an entirely new transmission, plus an airbag. Supposedly the city will reimburse me for everything, which probably equals what I paid in New York State tax last year so I guess it’s fair? But, rumor has it, it could take them at least a year to pay me.
Hey New York City, why don’t I just front you sixteen hundred dollars, okay? No problem!
I will say the impression I got from the mechanic, who had made some calls on my behalf to some people he knew around town, was that the city has been doing a lot of reimbursing lately in our neighborhood because of the insane pothole situation. People have been kicking up some dirt, is what I’m trying to say here. I’m happy to kick up some dirt too, if necessary.
I’m pretty exhausted by the whole thing and did some major complaining today to my very gracious friends, including Vannesa, who brought me over a care package. Only now as I write this am I starting to calm down. I always wish I can handle everything in my life better. I’m a big crybaby sometimes. Still I have burn marks on my body right now because of a pothole, which just feels totally absurd.
But then there’s this, from an email Kate sent:
“If you’re open and not afraid to take risks, and if you don’t live conventionally and want to live to the fullest, this shit just happens, bad and wonderful and crazy and everything else.”
And then she ordered a bottle of red to be delivered to me from the wine shop, because she’s awesome.
Tomorrow I swear to god I’m going to try it one more time. I promise you every fucking day I will give it another shot, even though I am a little bit terrified at this point to even leave my house. No explosions though tomorrow, pretty please? No explosions, no car accidents, no bad dogs, no natural semi-disasters. No nothing. No.
