Three weeks ago after school I decided to embrace my laziness or what I prefer to call my constitutional “right to relax” by letting my mom drive me home from school. That four minute walk home was too daunting and potentially treacherous. Little did I know, the drive home would prove even more treacherous.
Before we could get home, we had to pick up my sister from elementary school. Despite my numerous failed attempts to convince my mom to just drive home and leave her there (We don’t really need her, she’s just one more mouth to feed.), we continued down Eastern Ave. When we began closing in on the school my mom saw that all the good parking spaces were taking. Not wanting to have to fight another mother for a parking space today, my mom decided to just park a block away from the school. She slowed to a stop and put on her signal light, which last time I checked, sent the message “Pay attention I’m making to park”. Clearly this message was lost in translation because at that moment we were rear-ended. The first thought that popped into my mind was “Damn, my dad just finished paying off the car.” In retrospect I decided that any person with at least half a soul would have thought “Is any one hurt?” before thinking about car payments. As my rage reached the “seething” point, my mom instructed my sister to call the police because the impact was extremely great and we all figured that the accident was severe. At the same time the babbling idiot who had hit us, shuffled up to my mom’s window. He began to rattle of apologizes in Spanish to my mom and she gave a couple Spanish responses, but was in shock from the accident. I decided, at this point, that I liked the guy who had just hit us. One of my personality flaws is that I am easily won over by sappy apologies, something I hate myself for.
Soon a police car rolled up and parked a bit ahead of the accident site.
“Who called the police?” the police officer said.
“I think she did?” was the response from the idiot I now sympathized with.
The officer walked up to our car, swaying his narrow shoulders, thinking that he was something special. We were soon to find out that he in fact was special, in the sense that he was probably the world’s worst cop.
“Why did you call the police?” he questioned.
First of all an “Are you all alright?” may have been appropriate. Second of all, why the hell do you think we called the police?
Although still in shock, my mom gave the greatest response.
“We had an accident.”
The cop went on to explain that minor accidents didn’t require people to call the cops.
Minor? I just saw my life flash before my eyes. I think that’s reason to believe an accident wasn’t minor.
The impact of the accident was so great that we all figured that the damage was severe. Since my mom wasn’t in any shape to get out of the car and there was no way in hell I was getting out to check the damage, none of us knew the extent of the damage. The cop continued to blabber off rules about calling the cops in a tone that was exasperated and borderline angry. By this point I hated him more than the idiot who had hit us. My hate wasn’t unwarranted because A. I’m sure he had nothing better to do, and was probably annoyed that we interrupted the chili luncheon at the station and B. no one talks to my mama like that. Figuring that my word was weak against a police officer’s, I decided not to put up dukes.
Finally after this entire ordeal we got home and checked the damage. Three slight scratches and two minor dents. At least this could be fixed. Unfortunately my rage with the cop would persist for several weeks. (I can hold a grudge.) I also hated myself for not at least telling the cop to please talk to my mother properly. I hated myself for letting her take that crap. So for the next couple of weeks I tended to my bruised ego and hurt heart. Seething, I sat at home radiating a hate for both myself and for the failing police system.
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