Week 7 Ex. 2: 1st and 3rd Person

I was driving along; the same route I always took home from work. I left early from work this day; it was Friday, and Mother’s Day was this weekend. I had bought my wife a GPS as a gift, and was excited to get home and give it to her.

My cell phone sat dead in the seat beside me. As usual, I’d forgotten to charge it the night before.

I got on I-694, heading west. Traffic was moving quickly, but the ramp was afforded its own lane, on the left side of the flow. I had received a speeding ticket earlier in the week, my first in over five years, so I was paying much more attention to my speed than I usually would. I accelerated to match the speed of the cars around me, following behind the big white van that had merged in ahead of me as well.

I had taken the new GPS out of the packaging before leaving, and placed it upon the dashboard. I would have to explain how to use it this weekend, so I’d better start figuring it out. It merrily provided directions in a polite female voice, quite loudly as the speed of traffic increased.

We passed the interchange with I-35W. Traffic was always hectic here. I always tries to to stay in the far left lane until getting past all of these people merging.

We passed under the next bridge. Clear of the hectic merging behind, I flipped on my signal to move into the next lane over.

The rearview mirror was clear.

Right right-side mirror was clear.

As my eyes returned to the road ahead of me, perhaps only a second after they had left, it became clear that the van ahead of me had nosed down under the sudden application of brakes, locking up his rear wheels.

My foot instinctively stood on the brake.

Too close; can’t stay in this lane.

I yanked the wheel hard to the right. The sound of rubber dragging across concrete filled the car, as I neatly shot around the side of the van into the center lane, quickly moving alongside.

The rear of the car fishtailed into the right lane.

Overcorrected.

I realized my foot was still on the brake, dragging the rear end of the car along the road like a great pendulum. The car traveled straight down the freeway, but pointed almost 90 degrees in the wrong direction; straight at the van.

I spun the steering wheel back to the right, but there was far to little room to correct again in time. The front wheels caught their grip, and as the back wheels came back into alignment, the car careened towards the van. I spun the wheel violently back to the left to prevent the next fishtail, as the nose of the car stabbed into the front-right wheel well of the van at a 45 degree angle. The impact with the van straightened my travel in the lane, briefly lifting all four wheels off the ground.

Unfortunately, my brain had neglected to account for the impact straightening the car out as quickly as it did; the wheel now pointing left, with the car traveling straight ahead in the left lane. As the car settled back to the road surface, the tires caught, and the car turned hard into the center median, slapping the side of the car wildly against the concrete barrier.

Grinding along the wall, with my foot still on the brake, the car finally rolled to a stop in the emergency shoulder.

I put the car in park, and sat for just a moment. I screamed an expletive or two at the top of my lungs, and looked around, as my mind kicked back out of fight-or-flight mode.

Traffic behind us has stopped. Traffic ahead of us roared on; oblivious. The van was also pressed up against the center median.

The other driver.

Why did that sunuvabitch hit the brakes like that? He seemed to be moving around okay, and was already dialing a cell phone.

The cell phone.

Everything in my car had been tossed from it’s location. The cell phone, still completely useless without a charge, was now underneath the passenger seat, next to the packaging from the GPS.

The GPS.

No! Did that one new distraction make me miss something? How fast was I going? How close was I following the van?

A moment of stupid adolescent panic swept over me. Not wanting to explain whether or not a brand-new GPS was possibly involved in the accident or not, I popped open the glove box and crammed it in. The packaging was unceremoniously shoved underneath the passenger seat.

I rolled down the driver-side window, and crawled out of the car, sitting on the center median wall. The driver of the van stepped out of the passenger side door, and started walking towards me, holding his left arm.

“Man, that fucking motorcycle cut in front of me just as the car ahead of him hit the brakes. I almost went right over him. There was no way you were gonna avoid hitting me. You all right?”

Just make sure you tell the troopers that story when they get here.

“Hit my shoulder on the side window when I went into the wall, I’ll have a nasty bruise tomorrow,” I responded, looking at his arm. “You okay?”

He turned his arm to show the inside of his forearm, covered with bloody cuts and scratches. “Air bag,” he said.

A third driver, who witnessed the accident, ran up to the two of us after parking his truck in the shoulder behind us. “I already called 911, there’s a trooper on the way.”

Then he turned to me.

“You almost saved that, man. I thought you were gonna flip when you hit; you were airborne for a while there.”

“Well, I’ll take all of this,” I replied, gesturing towards at the wrecked front axle of the van; the ghastly twisted angle the rear wheels of my car jutted out from the undercarraige; the cuts on the van driver’s arm, the throbbing bruise starting on my shoulder, “rather than see what would have happened to that guy on the motorcycle ahead of him.”

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Mike left work early that day; it was the Friday before Mother’s Day. He had picked up a new GPS for his wife as a present, and was excited to get it home to give to her.

He lobbed the cell phone into the passenger seat as he sat down in the car. He’d forgotten to charge it the night before, and it had died during the day. Never able to leave a new gadget alone, he pulled the GPS out of the packaging, stuck it to the windshield, and programmed it to guide him home.

Following the polite female voice’s guidance, he got onto the freeway. Traffic was moving quickly, but the ramp was afforded its own lane, on the left side of the flow.

Mike noticed that the GPS indicated how fast he was going, as well as the speed limit on the road. He’d gotten his first speeding ticket in over five years earlier in the week, and was paying extra attention to how fast he was going.

Traffic was always hectic at the interchange between I-694 and I-35W. Mike always stayed in the left lane until he was past the merging traffic. Passing under the next bridge, he decided it was time to get out of the fast lane.

The same instant he turned on his signal and began to check his mirrors to move into the right lane, a motorcycle darted into traffic just ahead of the large, white work van that Mike was following. The van slammed on his brakes to avoid running down the cyclist.

By the time Mike’s attention returned to the road in front of him, it was too late.

Mike yanked the wheel hard to the right. The sound of rubber dragging across concrete filled the car, as the Pontiac Vibe shot neatly around the side of the van into the center lane, quickly moving alongside.

The rear of the car fishtailed into the right lane.

“Overcorrected,” Mike thought, as he realized his foot was still on the brake, dragging the rear end of the car along the road like a great pendulum.

The car traveled straight down the freeway, but pointed almost 90 degrees in the wrong direction; straight at the van.

Mike spun the steering wheel back to the right, but there was far to little room to correct again in time. The front wheels caught their grip, and as the back wheels came back into alignment, the car careened towards the van. Mike spun the wheel violently back to the left to prevent the next fishtail, as the nose of the car collided with the front-right wheel well of the van at a 45 degree angle.

The impact sent the van careening into the center median wall. As it collided with the unforgiving concrete, the airbag deployed, softening the impact, yet tearing bloody gashes into the driver’s left arm.

The Pontiac was briefly lifted into the air by the impact with the van. Overcorrecting again due to the impact, the wheels pointed left as they settled back to the road surface. The tires caught, and turned the car hard into the center median, slapping the side of the car wildly against the concrete barrier.

Grinding along the wall, with his foot still on the brake, the car finally rolled to a stop in the emergency shoulder.

Mike put the car in park, and sat for just a moment. He screamed an expletive or two at the top of his lungs, then looked around.

Traffic behind had stopped; ahead roared on; oblivious to the chaos in their wake.

Everything in the car had been tossed from it’s location. The cell phone, still completely useless without a charge, was now underneath the passenger seat, next to the packaging from the GPS.

Mike cursed himself; had the new distraction from the GPS affected his reaction? Had he been following too close? Was he going too fast?

A moment of stupid, adolescent panic swept over him. Not wanting to explain whether or not a brand-new GPS was possibly involved in the accident or not, Mike popped open the glove box and crammed it in. The packaging was unceremoniously shoved underneath the passenger seat.

He rolled down the driver-side window, and crawled out of the car, sitting on the center median wall. The driver of the van stepped out of the passenger side door, and started walking towards the Pontiac, cradling his injured arm.

“Man, that fucking motorcycle cut in front of me just as the car ahead of him hit the brakes. I almost went right over him. There was no way you were gonna avoid hitting me. You all right?”

“Just make sure you tell the troopers that story when they get here.”, Mike thought to himself.

“Hit my shoulder on the side window when I went into the wall, I’ll have a nasty bruise tomorrow,” Mike responded.

A third driver, who witnessed the accident, ran up after parking his truck in the shoulder behind us.

“I already called 911, there’s a trooper on the way. You almost saved that, man. I thought you were gonna flip when you hit; you were airborne for a while there.”

“Well, I’ll take all of this,” Mike replied, gesturing towards at the wrecked front axle of the van; the ghastly twisted angle the rear wheels of my car jutted out from the undercarraige; the cuts on the van driver’s arm, the throbbing bruise starting on his shoulder, “rather than see what would have happened to that guy on the motorcycle ahead of him.