I worked late last night, making up hours missed during January and February, when transportation challenges forced me to spend two hours riding the bus every day. Driving south on I-25 in my new (to me) 1991 Honda Accord with flawless leather interior, I decided to change lanes and checked the blind spot to my left.

I'm not good at checking my blind spots. What I really mean is, I'm too good at checking my blind spots. I don't glance -- I examine the blind spot with a careful, critical eye, as if the Loch Ness Monster might appear in the empty space. What if I changed lanes and smashed into Nessie? Better to take an extra-long look, than to risk broadsiding an angry, bellowing sea monster!

You've already guessed what happened. I completed my appraisal and turned back. Brake lights.

You are fucking kidding me. I mashed down the brake pedal, but not in time to avoid ramming the old truck in front of me. "You are fucking kidding me," I said, out loud this time, and pulled over.

The truck kept going for a few hundred yards, then finally pulled off. I drove ahead to just behind the truck, where two Latino guys stood inspecting their ruined bumper.

I got out. "Are you okay?" I asked.

"Yes. Are you okay?" the guy asked.

"Yeah, I'm fine," I said. I cleared my throat. "Do you have a cell phone?"

He nodded.

"Well," I said, "I guess we'd better call the cops."

"We don't have to," he said, looking sly.

I hadn't expected this. Uninsured, I thought. Or driving on a suspended license, or no license at all. Or maybe they're illegal immigrants. "So you don't want to call the police?" I asked.

He shrugged. "It's up to you."

I calculated quickly. The insurance company would pay for the damage to my car, less the deductible. The accident was clearly my fault, so if we called the cops, I would have to pay a fine for careless driving at least, plus make an appearance in traffic court, plus pay increased insurance premiums, plus hang around on the side of the highway on a winter night, plus fill out a police report, plus meet with an insurance adjuster. I looked at my car. The impact had broken the passenger-side headlight, although the light inside still shined. I lifted the hood. Everything appeared to be in working order, although the edge of the hood had bent under. Probably not much more damage here than my deductible. An easy decision, really.

"Let's get out of here," I said. And so we did.

At least the leather interior is still flawless.

+posted by Lawrence @ 3/02/2004 09:20:00 PM