Wednesday, May 23, 2007
Matt's Olds and how I done messed that up
Hector is a badass. I dig the car. Whoops it up to 80mph if I just slip on the gas pedal. Built for speed and damn sexy. Does the trick. However, Hector the Mustang, with that .351 Windsor runs hot. The guy before me put an electric fan in there that kicks on when the radiator gets to a certain temperature, but last week, that stopped working. I was overheating profanely. It is cool to have a car that is a showstopper (well, compared to Ferdie R.I.P.) but with the steam blowing out the front? NOT COOL.
So Hector was out of commission. I needed wheels. Matt said he would loan me his Olds. I dig that car. I laughed myself sick in it a few weeks ago. I mused that I'd always wondered who drove a car like this, and now I know. it wasn't the fact that it was an Olds; it was the fact that there was trash and random stuff all over the interior. In the coffee cup holder was a 2 day old cup of unfinished joe with cigarette butts floating in it. Clothes, papers, bits and pieces, cigarette packs, matches, nuts, bolts, fast food wrappers and spare change were everywhere. Furthermore, Matt has a socket wrench up by the back window, just there...waiting to brain someone if the brakes get spiked.
Not only that, but the transmission in this car is fading fast. This means that if you slow down for a speed bump, the car decides to drop into first right before you stop, giving a slight chirp at points. First time this happened to me, I thought that I had hit something, the downshift was so drastic.
But talk about comfortable! You can lean wayyyy back and just float in this thing. It is almost like you are coasting in a cab full of warm jello. This vehicle holds you in place, but lets you spread wayyy out. Relaxation. Combine all of that relax-time with cruise control and an MP3 Player ready stereo system, and we are talking Slow Ride, Foghat style...wherever you go.
So I am rolling down Highway 1, digging Moss Landing. Just digging those smoke stacks. I will never get over them. I once accused myself of phallus-worship because I am so into them. but then I checked myself, because if that is phallus worship, then I have issues. Circus issues. I had Dr. Dre and Snoop Dogg on the player with a remix of 187 on an Undercover Cop, and I distinctly remember thinking to myself how when I watched Deep Cover years ago, I had held a tape recorder to the TV to record the rap, because I knew that this Snoopy kid was fresh.
Then it happened. I was in the single lane corridor. An older 5-ton truck drifted across the painted lane divider. It clipped me in the front left wheel. Right in front of me. It happened quick, and I saw the vehicle shuddering and bouncing from the brakes as it slid into me. The truck was carrying a payload of stacked strawberries in the back and suddenly, there was a cascade of red, sweet projectiles clouding the sky. Like bullets of blood-chunks. The impact caused the front windshield to bow for a second of hang-time before it snapped, sending shards of safety glass into my face, particularly my left eye. I winced and held onto the steering wheel as I was pushed and torn into the shoulder of the road.
The strawberries were hitting the ground and the interior of the car when the traffic behind me caught up, locked brakes and began to plow into the passenger side of the five-ton. I saw the truck driver rocking forward and back in his cab like he was taking machine-gun fire to the chest. A black Toyota 4x4 attempted to swerve around the mess and wound out hitting head on traffic in the oncoming lane. A motorcyclist on a BMW hit the front grill of the 4x4 and launched into the cab. His head was through the safety glass; his body hung limp on the hood of the truck as it spun towards the bridge. Like a criminal waiting for the guillotine blade to fall, he had lost the will to live. The BMW cycle recoiled back into the hood of an oncoming white Mercedes, which pinballed the remains of the overpriced two-wheeler in my direction. I was still in motion, mind you, yet, I was able to duck as this cycle's belt-driven rear wheel tore into the roof of the car. The sound of grinding metal and scorching tires was all I could hear, and I wasn't quite ready to look at the mayhem that was still procreating outside of my situation in the Olds.
A Volkswagen Jetta slammed into my rear end, throwing my face into the closed glove-box, which opened as I bounced back, blowing papers, mints and an obscenely sized container of hand sanitizer in my face. I was on my side, and I looked up at the passenger door. It looked intact, so I reached for it. In the process, a Mercury Tracer wagon plowed into the rear of the Jetta, causing the rest of the glove compartment to empty in my ear. The latch from the open, hanging glovebox door had torn into my left cheekbone, and I had to pull away from it. I felt it rip my face meat as it unstuck itself. The blood began to gush, and I made the mistake of reaching up with my left hand to check the wound and then rubbing my itching eye. I ground the chunk of safety glass deep into my eyeball, and I began to wince, weep and pulse blood out of my left socket. I was cussing at this point, gritting my teeth as I reached up for the door handle to get out.
The chaos outside was deafening. Everyone must have been driving at 85mph, and everyone must have not hit their brakes. It was a cacophony of human screams, breaking glass and grinding, scraping metal. I had to get free of the vehicle. Suddenly, my face stung so horribly that I flipped over on my back and writhed in the cigarette wrappers and safety glass. Gasoline from the BMW was dripping in on my face. My other eye caught a serious flush of gasohol (probably supreme, them Beemers don't come cheap), and I was officially blinded. I was grunting loud now, and I should have kept my mouth shut. Gas poured down my face. It was in my mouth, in the back of my throat. I sneezed and it burned like nothing I have ever felt before as it mixed with my snot and blew out of my nose.
I wriggled my way blindly to the passenger door and propped it open. Surprisingly, it opened like butter, and I fell out into the marsh on the side of the road. There was noise, and there were sirens, and it was all a tangle of input over the roaring pain that I felt throughout my head and eyeball. I reached out for a clump of grass to pull myself up and away with, and my hand sunk into something warm and deep. I reached in deeper and felt things, hard things moving out of the way. Then the smell cracked through the sheen of gasohol in my nasal passage, and I smelled the rot. I couldn't open my eyes, but I smelled the smell of flesh in decomposition. I realized that I had put my hand, probably up to the elbow, into some roadkill. By the size of it, and the size of the bones that I was bumping into with my fingers in that oleaginous mess, I would figure that it was the size of a full-grown german shepherd.
I gagged. There was nothing to come up, except a trickle of gas-flavored bile.
I honestly don't know where the spark came from. I have never been a believer in cars "just blowing up" when they wreck (like at the beginning of Final Destination 2), but there was a spark that hit somewhere. I felt all of the air suck away from me in a pleasant breeze that returned with a scorching blowback. I was thrown, over and out of the roadkill and into the top part of some sort of ravine. I lay there for a second. I was prostrate, and I hadn't been in a relaxed position since that fool cut me off. My eyes were still stinging shut.
Then I realized that I was on fire. The gasoline had ignited. It was my head that was on fire. I staggered to my feet and tried to walk towards where I thought the ocean was off of the bridge. I ran. I was slipping on strawberries. They were popping and smearing under my feet like little embryos. The scorching hurt. I batted myself around my face and ears, trying to get the flames under control. No such luck though; they had taken root and were tearing and bubbling under my skin.
There comes a point where there is too much pain. Too much pain and then it all stops. The nerves can't fire anymore. They have bleated their last messages to me and now I just have to suffer whatever consequences of disfigurement there are. I hit that point. I also made it up to the road. I was able to squint my non-sharded eye open and view the flames and wreckage about twenty feet behind me.
A woman ran up to me.
"Oh God, Oh my God!" She kept yelling.
"Are you alright? Are you alright?" She kept asking.
I wanted to yell at her to shut-up and that was when I realized that my lips had been shredded and cauterized in strange forms on my face. I inhaled deeply and the flames caught the gasoline residue in my mouth, sending a plume of flame straight into both lungs. I coughed like a dragon, blowing my burnt innard smell all over the woman. I saw a light bearing down on me. Coughing smoke and burnt lung pieces, I turned. With my one good eye, I determined that it was a CRV, blasting down the highway. Apparently no one seemed to be slowing down or hitting their brakes at all; they were just plowing through. Whoever was driving hit me. I buckled around the hood of the vehicle. My arms over the top. Blood, smoke and lung-meat dribbled onto the hood of the vehicle. I looked into the face of the driver, a beautiful woman with long brown hair. She looked down at me in horror, and I felt the impact of the side of the five-ton truck in my back. In slow motion, I watched her beatific face disappear behind a snap of dust and then, an airbag.
I may never walk again, smoking is out of the question, and I am looking pretty rough these days, but thanks for loaning me your car Matt. Homies do that kind of thing for each other.