Dear jackdurden,
Please find below a new version of your story. I felt there was too
much essential detail to crowd into one paragraph, so I spaced it out
a little. The narrative facts are approximately the same as in the
original version, but the tone is less reportorial.
Regards,
leapinglizard
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Half a second was all it took. I was on my way to school last week,
driving my green '83 Camaro. The car was nothing special, but it had
factory paint of a kind they don't use in Detroit any more: a wicked
bright green, like poison apples. A car that green should be plenty
visible on a crisp morning in late October, with clear skies and not a
hint of fog. Maybe the sun was in my eyes a little bit, or maybe I was
distracted by the thermos. My aluminum thermos of coffee, lying next to
me on the passenger seat, had rolled forward when I reached the bottom
of the hill, and I leaned over to adjust it while going through the
intersection. It wasn't some kind of huge acrobatic lean, just a modest
lean at, what, a ten-degree angle? I might have taken my eyes off the
road for half a second, like I say, a fraction of a second in which I
could just as well have been looking into the rear-view mirror.
When my eyes flicked back to the road, there was a car in front of me. I
had no time to wonder what the hell it was doing there or how it had
arrived so quickly in that inconvenient spot. There was just the fact of
a glossy gray car, one of those snub-nosed German hatchbacks, that was
somehow driving across my path. I had no time to hit the brakes. None. I
could only watch with open eyes and an abruptly stiffened back as the
bright green nose of my '83 Camaro plunged through a sheet of expensive
German steel. It wasn't loud, not nearly as loud as you expect a frontal
collision to be. It was like the sound of a half-full milk carton dropping
to a concrete floor, or maybe ten of them dropping at once.
It was over almost before it began. There I was, standing on the street,
mourning over my Camaro while the other guy surveyed his damage. It wasn't
as if he had much to worry about. The front left corner of his car had
shorn off like a piece of orange peel, leaving the frame and everything
else intact. My '83 Camaro looked like it had taken a broadside from a
battleship. My headlights were shattered, the bumper had split in half,
and my long green hood was crumpled up like a strip of tin foil. The other
guy, who had distinguished gray hair and wore polished gray loafers to
go with his gray Volkswagen, had flipped out a cell phone. He was calling
the cops, I figured. I took out my insurance booklet and started filling
out the accident slips in duplicate.
While I did the paperwork, Mr. Gray talked to the cop shop. After hanging
up on them he called his wife, I think, and his secretary, and someone
who might have been his mistress, while I wrote everything down. We
didn't exchange a word. I was too nervous to think straight. I knew that
if we conversed at all, I would blurt out something stupid. He looked
like just the sort of smooth, poker-faced guy to trick me into admitting
responsibility. I concentrated on recording everything properly: license
plates, date and time, street intersection. When I was done, the cop had
arrived and was interviewing Mr. Gray. The cop was compact and muscular,
a solid-looking figure. He would find out the facts of the matter, I felt,
whatever the facts were. When he came over and asked for my side of the
story, I almost flinched. But I told him everything, about leaning aside
to adjust the thermos while I was driving through the intersection. He
listened patiently and nodded.
"Was the light green?" he finally asked.
I nodded. That didn't seem to be enough. I added, "I think so."
"You think so?" he said gently, shaking his head. "You think?"
But he turned away without further questions. He walked across the
road and then I saw a girl, fifteen or sixteen years old, wearing a
plaid skirt and carrying books, who was standing at the bus stop on the
corner. She must have been standing there all this time. Come to think
of it, I might have noticed her as I leaned over for the thermos. Might
have. The cop talked to her briefly, taking notes, then handed over his
notepad for her to sign. He came back and stood in front of my broken
green Camaro, giving me a hard look while slapping a ticket book against
his thigh. My goose is cooked, I thought. My insurance will double. No,
triple. Forget about fixing the car. I'll have to sell it.
The cop spun on his heel and faced Mr. Gray. "I'm giving you a ticket,"
he said. "This gentleman" -- pointing over his shoulder at me -- "had
a green light. You sped through the red."
Saved, damn it. Saved. It was all Mr. Gray's fault. Still, I wished I
had paid better attention during that fraction of a second. A body shop
might be able to reassemble my hood and bumper, but the paint job would
never be the same again. You don't see it coming out of Detroit any more,
that green factory paint, the wicked bright green like poison apples.
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Request for Answer Clarification by
jackdurden-ga
on
23 Sep 2004 23:26 PDT
Hi, thanks I really liked it!! Great Job!
I did make a few changes because a couple things didn't really fit. I
am basing it on a couple details that must stay the same (a rough
past draft), so it couldnt be a green '83 Camaro (although I wish I
had a '83) and the other guy had to be a teenager so I don't know if
Mr. Gray would work for him.
I did want it to have a happy endding and wanted it to start out as a bad day.
I rewrote it at 1:30am so if you could please let me know what you
think and if you see any mistakes in it and any suggestions you could
give me to improve it would be great!
Thanks so much!
basing
Half a second was all it took. I was on my way to school last week,
driving my black '89 Camaro. The car was nothing special, but I had
just bought last year and to me it was still new. Everything was going
wrong on that day, my alarm didn?t go off and my printer wouldn?t
work. I was going to be late for classes. Maybe the sun was in my eyes
a little bit, or maybe I was distracted by the wrong time on my car
receiver. I glanced over to check time on my cell phone while going
through the intersection. It wasn't some kind of long examination
glance, just a modest glance, I might have taken my eyes off the road
for half a second, like I say, a fraction of a second in which I could
just as well have been looking into the rear-view mirror. When my eyes
flicked back to the road, there was a car in front of me. I had no
time to wonder what the hell it was doing there or how it had arrived
so quickly in that inconvenient spot. There was just the fact of a
glossy gray car, one of those snub-nosed German hatchbacks, that was
somehow driving across my path. I had no time to hit the brakes. None.
I could only watch with open eyes and an abruptly stiffened back as
the nose of my '89 Camaro plunged through a sheet of expensive German
steel. It wasn't loud, not nearly as loud as you expect a frontal
collision to be. It was like the sound of a half-full milk carton
dropping to a concrete floor, or maybe ten of them dropping at once.
It was over almost before it began. There I was, standing on the
street, mourning over my Camaro while the other guy surveyed his
damage. It wasn't as if he had much to worry about. The front left
corner of his car had shorn off like a piece of orange peel, leaving
the frame and everything else intact. My '89 Camaro looked like it had
taken a broadside from a battleship. My headlights were shattered, the
bumper had split in half, and my long black hood was crumpled up like
a strip of tin foil. I thought about my alarm, and how if it would
have gone off I wouldn?t be in this mess. This wasn?t my day. The
other guy, who was in his late teens and wore gray shorts to go with
his gray Volkswagen, had flipped out a cell phone. He was calling the
cops, I figured. I took out my insurance booklet and started filling
out the accident slips in duplicate. While I did the paperwork, the
other driver talked to a dispatcher. After hanging up on them he
called his parents, and described the damage to his car, while I wrote
everything down. We didn't exchange more then a few words. I was too
nervous to think straight. I knew that you should never admit guilt in
an accident, and really there wasn?t much to say, so I just
concentrated on recording everything properly: license plates, date
and time, street intersection. When I was done, the cop had arrived
and was interviewing the other driver. The officer seemed friendly and
he would find out the facts of the matter, I felt, whatever the facts
were. When he came over and asked my papers and my side of the story,
I almost flinched. But I told him everything, about glancing over to
check the time while I was driving through the intersection. He
listened patiently and nodded. "Was the light green?" he finally
asked. I nodded. That didn't seem to be enough. I added, "I think so."
"You think so?" he said gently, shaking his head. "You think?" But he
turned away without further questions. He walked across the road and
then I saw a older woman, with a small Jack Russell Terrier at the end
of a leash, who was standing on the corner. She must have been
standing there all this time and witnessed the carnage?ugh collision.
She pointed at me and then over at the other driver. The cop talked to
her briefly, taking notes, then handed over his notepad for her to
sign. He came back and stood in front of my broken Camaro, giving me a
hard look while slapping a ticket book against his thigh. I?m screwed,
I thought. My insurance will double. No, triple. Forget about fixing
the car. I'll have to sell it and get a scooter. The cop spun on his
heel and faced the other guy. I could barely make out the words; "I'm
giving you a ticket," he said. "This gentleman" -- pointing over his
shoulder at me -- "had a green light. You sped through the red."
Saved, damn it. Saved. It was all his fault. Because I had insurance
on the car, and I estimated the Camaro?s value at double what I paid
for it, I can now buy the Z28 of my dreams. My bad day turned out to
be not so bad, thanks to that old lady. And I guess they're right.
Senior Citizens, although slow and dangerous behind the wheel, can
still serve a purpose.
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