I don’t even know where the hell to start. It’s like this day never happenned, but it did. Partly because the effects of what happenned today faded out so fast. How could that be?
Let me start this chain of events chronologically.
I wake up, and I am greeted with the wonderful news that I have to help Lucifer pick up a gigantic heap of trash that has accumulated on that horrible crackhouse he’s building on top of our house. Groovy.
If the day is going to end all shitty, why not do something beneficial , like going back to the newspaper and pick up my neglected paycheck. I only had ten dollars to my name today. Luckily that was all about to change as soon as I got to the bank.
I get to the newspaper, parked right in front of it, risking a parking ticket, and dash inside, but the door won’t open. They just installed these new contraptions where you have to swipe your ID on a receptacle for access, and I was left out, since I’m just a lowly freelancer. No biggie. I got past the guard, got my check, and only greeted the people I bumped into, I didn’t feel like doing the whole "miss congeniality" bit while my car was illegally parked. Besides, I had tuna for breakfast and left my breath fresheners on top of my bed. Damnit! Fucking tuna breath…
Before I left, however, one of the ladies that deals with advertisements and shit calls me in a "secret spy" kinda hush hush tone:
- Harriet the Spy: So, what ‘chu doin’ with your life right now?
- Me: Uuuuh… Nuthin’. Waiting to be called by you people when the need arises.
- Harriet the Spy: Look, I gots this client who might just be needin’ one of them graphic designer dudes. You into it? you into the whole photoshop/illustrator/quark thing? Eh? Eh?
- Me: Why sure–
- Harriet the Spy: Then gimme your phone!! Quickly!!
I proceed to give her the phone, while she looked around suspiciously, getting me all paranoid as well.
- Harriet the Spy: Look, I think I might be callin’ these peoples today, ya hear? I’ll tell them to call you if them’s interested and shit.
- Me: Cool! Uh.. gotta go, I parked right in front–
- Harriet the Spy: What the fuck are ya’ doing standing here like a ‘tard! go! them dirty cops gon’ give you’se a ticket, boy!
- Me: Toodles!
I leave with a measly check in hand, but happy that my account is no longer going to contain a two digit balance. I get on the highway singing merrily to the soothing, whimsical sounds of Stone Temple Pilots.
Suddenly I am on the left lane, and I see this purple cockroach… I’m sorry, it was a Daewoo Lanos, I don’t mean to offend cockroaches… Well, the tiny car put the left turning signal from the middle lane, and I said "Oh, the wee laddie wants to go left. But he can’t, we’re practically paralell to each other, he obviously sees that. Right?
WRONG. The motherfucker pulled to the left so carelessly and suddenly, I didn’t even have time to sound the horn and warn him I was beside him. I don’t know what this fucktard was on, but apparently he didn’t see me, so he kept going left, and I pulled the steering wheel left to get as far away from him as possible, and for about a second and a half I thought I succeeded. Wrong again. The motherfucker kept going left, so he followed me and slammed his car into my right passenger door, making his own bumper fly into the middle of the street.
I was flabbergasted. How can someone drive so horribly? was it a woman? a woman on crack? a woman on crack and on PMS with a cheating husband and a son that just confessed he’s gay? Worse.
It was a crusty old man, who smelled like cheap rum and Marlboro’s. He was accompanied by an elderly woman, with some metallic braces around one of her legs, and a makeup scheme that would make Picasso weep and call himself a hack. I parked my car close to the curb but careful not to leave the impact zone completely, so the cops can have an idea of what happenned. The nasty looking old man got out, collected his bumper and put it in his car. I expected him to curse and spew the vilest insults at me, but he was strangely docile, but a bit skittish. When I collected myself (I was all clammy and trembling from frustration and rage) I called the cops. I tried to give them the most accurate directions, but I didn’t know the name of that avenue. After a few minutes, he oriented himself and said a patrol was on the way. That didn’t comfort me, I’ve heard that one before, and last time I heard it, the cops didn’t even show up. I also called Lucifer, who seemed strangely calm and limited himself to giving me some advice on how to handle the situation. That freaked me out a little, I expected him to have an aneurism or something.
I counted 3 police cars and one motorcycle police pass us by, and none of them stopped. I really don’t know what sort of inept, selfish bastards they have patroling that area, which is pretty active, since the City Hall is nearby and there are about 3 police stations less than 5 blocks away. No wonder crime is at an all time high. Cops, unless they see a puddle of blood and guts on the street, ignore you like roadkill. Then they ask themselves why nobody respects them anymore.
The last patrol car I saw, stopped in front of us to give ANOTHER car a ticket. We had to almost cross the fucking street to get their attention. Finally they come over to our side, and they tell us to move to the nearest station, which was a couple of blocks away. I called Lucifer immediately, since he told me not to move the car under any circumstance. He was outraged at the suggestion:
- Lucifer: What?! WHAT!!!! IS THAT FUCKING COP CRAZY?! did you take his badge number?! you’re not supposed to move from the impact scene until an officer arrives and examines it to decide who’s to blame!!!
- Me: Well It’s a little bit too late, I’m already on my way and the cops are right in front of me and asked us to follow them.
- Lucifer: !@#$%^&**((&*&^^%$!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I’M GOING OVER THERE NOW. DON’T MOVE.
Dont move? bitch, mi car.. I’m sorry, I mean YOUR car’s been smashed, I’m not planning on going A.W.O.L. anytime soon, you crazy bastard!
I get to the station, and I’m greeted by this obese, greasy man sitting on a desk like the fucking king of Sweden. The Elderly lady seems to be on the defensive, wanting to get the cop’s attention before I do. Apparently both of them are very skittish. I suspected something was not right with these two when about an hour ago, when I called the cops for the first time (yes, the fuckers never arrived), the dirty old man said to me "Now now, there’s no need to call the cops now, is there?"
Motherfucker, the front of your car is destroyed, my car door is smashed, and you don’t want me to call the cops? Do you dip your Marlboros in heroin before you smoke them?!?!
Half an hour later the dirty-looking cop calls us to make our claims. He asks us for our vehicle & driving licenses. I brought mine. The crusty old man seems aufully quiet. Lucifer arrives and sits down in a corner, like a quiet, demonic shadow. He didn’t make a sound, but as soon as the door was opened, I knew it was him. His evil aura is a strong one, my young, defenseless readers.
He sat listening to everything, ready to pounce to the front desk at the first signal of me fucking things up.
- Greasy Cop: Your license and registration, sir?
- Crusty Old Fart: Bwhesumuhumbrfht…
- Greasy Cop: What was that?
- Crusty Old Fart: I said I don’t have one. I let it expire.
.
.
Dance! Whole lotta booty in the pants!
Latoya! It’s your birthday!
Shaniqua! It’s your birthday!
LaTavia, It’s your birthday!
Go! Go! Go! Go go go!
…That was my head celebrating a victory with some ghetto music going on inside it. Don’t ask for details about it, please.
Anyway, the old guy was FUCKED. He didn’t carry a license, his registration didn’t have an official seal, and I think that by now the cop noticed his disgusting ron cañita breath.
We go outside so the cop can assess the damage and confirm if the old guy had a registration sticker on, because things just couldn’t get any more insane. Greasy cop walks along, a bit pissed because he actually has to walk a block to see the cars. Get over it, hungry hungry hippo, you need the exercise.
We get there, he checks the sticker and orders Crusty Old Man to look harder to see if he finds the sealed registration inside the car. While he searches, Greasy cop, Lucifer and Me go back to the station while the cop gives us a few pointers:
- Greasy cop: Look, you have to be really stern with this guy and agree to meet sometime saturday for your insurance claim. You have to make sure he brings all the papers, because he just looks like a damn dirty old drunkard to me.
That last comment was music to my ears. It was obvious I had the upper hand. It was NOT my fault and there’s no way it could ever be.
We wrap things up, Lucifer sees that everything’s a-ok and vanishes in a puff of smoke and cinder, and when we’re about to leave, Greasy Cop scolds Crusty Old Fart for not having his documents ready. The old lady that came with him, who had remained quiet in her corner, stood up and was about to perform a heart-wrenching performance that started with "I have this appointment at San Pablo Hospital at 1 p.m. about this leg and–" Greasy cop stopped her before she started the ol’ fake-cry and ruined her seventeen coats of mascara.
- Greasy cop: "Look, ma’am, calm down. There’s gonna be no problem as long as the gentleman here brings all his documents on the arranged date. And next time, get a qualified driver to take you wherever you want to go."
She put an "Oh no he didn’t!" face and left.
When we’re outside, the sweet old lady act is suddenly dropped and she barks to her husband: "You go get the car! I’ll wait here!" With her bright green eye shadow and her satan-red lips, she looked like a fat, wrinkly chinese dragon. I didn’t even talk to her once, fearful of having one of her leg braces flying at my face.
As Crusty Old Fart and me go to our respective vehicles, he starts accusing me of saying that Lucifer was with me when we crashed, and I had to explain to the poor, possibly drunk bastard that I didn’t, that the cop knew my dad was just there for moral support. He continued blabbering about how well things went and that there was no need to get all violent or unruly, and all I wanted was to smash his fucking face in. He disrupted my day and now my weekend, greatly reinforcing my belief that old people should not be allowed to drive, for they bring death and misery when they sit behind a steering wheel.
But I did not want to accumulate any more bad karma. Had I wanted to really fuck this guy up, I would have convinced the officer to test the alcohol level in his blood. But I let things slide. The cop either ignored this fact so as not to open a bigger Pandora’s box, or had really horrible sinuses and couldn’t smell right. Even though the strong smell of alcohol could have unclogged his nose in a jiffy. I just assume he didn’t want any more paperwork. Neither did I. I just wanted to get the hell out of there with a set date for my insurance claim.
We left, not before I reminded him twice that our meeting was on saturday at 8 a.m.
I called Lucifer, and told his evilness that everything went smooth. This pleased him greatly, for I heard the sounds of tortured souls wailing on the background.
- Lucifer: "Now you’ll see how this is gonna turn out to be a good thing, from what we get from the insurance, we’ll paint the whole right side and make that bitch look like new."
He had a point there, the right side of the car had a few nicks and scratches that could use a little dab of paint…
I went to the bank, changed my check, and while I was waiting in line, Lillith calls:
- Lillith: Buy me some groceries to make dinner, or be forever damned in the blackest pit of the most unholy hell. Ciao! (That "Hell" usually means an afternoon locked in my house while she cranks up the stereo with Los Panchos.)
I shopped and I left, driving extremely carefully, letting through each and every person that passed me by or cut me off, without a hint of rage. I arrived home safely and made it through the barrage of questions that Lillith shot at me, and hours later, between the downloaded music, the videogames, and mindless TV watching, I forgot all about the incident, until I opened up my wallet and saw the crudely written insurance appointment for this saturday, and I thought:
Goddamn, this would make a kick-ass blog entry.
