Thankful Friday
I waved two cars around me; they were turning left and I had to get from the left turn lane to the right so I could turn the corner and pull over. As you know if you read the last post, I expected the car that had just rear-ended me to follow me to the curb so we could exchange information, but instead it sped after the cars that had just turned left.
Which felt like a solid punch to the gut.
I banged the steering wheel, cursed out loud, and ground my teeth at the meanness, the betrayal, my own stupid gullibility. I speed-dialed Hugh so I could yell at someone instead of into thin air—“They ditched me, these just ditched me, they—”
And then in my rearview mirror I saw a car pulling to the curb behind me.
“Somebody's coming. I have to go.”
A man stepped out of the car and we walked toward each other. He was around 50, not much taller than me, wearing a necklace with chunky wooden beads and a cross. I remember searching his face for intent, but I can't remember what he looked like.
“They took off on you?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“And then they almost hit me,” he said. “One-five-two-X-B-Q. The license.”
Oh my god. This guy, a complete stranger, had turned around and backtracked to give me that bastard's license plate number!
“Really?” I said, all earnestness and gratitude. I leaned into my car and grabbed a scrap of paper and a pen. “What was it again?”
He repeated the number and I said, “Oh! I love you! Thank you!”
And it didn't feel awkward, even after the words were out and I heard them echoing in my skull.
“Do you know what kind of car it was?” I asked.
“A Buick or an Oldsmobile,” he said.
“Thanks,” I said. “Thanks so much!”
He started back to his car, hesitated and then took a step back toward me. “You should call the police,” he said. “They'll get 'em.”
And then he was gone, and I hadn't even had the presence of mind to ask his name or get his phone number. I wasn't thinking witness, I was thinking good samaritan re-balancing my world.
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My bad car karma started when I was on my way to Safeway for some cold beverages two or three Sundays ago.
- I was driving the Honda up Curtis, and all of a sudden a 20-year-old kid pulled out from where he was parallel parked and smacked into the front end of my passenger-side door.
- The day before Hugh brought the Honda into the shop, I was pulled over for rolling through a four-way stop on the way to school. And yes, I got the ticket.
- The next day, we rented a crappy Chevy I could drive to work while the Honda was in the shop. (Hugh told me not to get the Chevy, but I just took what they gave me.) At the car rental place, the guy started the car for me. “Sometimes you need to jiggle the steering wheel to get it started,” he explained. I dropped Taavi at daycare, and when I got back in the car I couldn't get the key to turn in the ignition, no matter how much infernal jiggling I did. Hugh arrived on the scene eventually, and he couldn't get the damn thing started, either. We left it there and he gave me a ride to work.
- Hugh traded the non-starting Chevy for a Mazda Atenza. He went to pick up the kids from school, and there was nowhere to park, and it was 5:30 so all the school busses were long gone, so he left the rental car parked at the far end of the school bus zone. He got a $250 parking ticket.
- The Mazda starts just fine, runs like a dream, and has a padded leather steering wheel that feels just right in my hands. We'd had it for less than 24 hours when 152XBQ rammed into me.
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So now you're thinking that my car karma is negatively balanced, even with the soul-boosting appearance of my good samaritan. But, no. There's one thing I haven't told you about yet.
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Last Saturday night, we went to Kaboom, the fireworks-choreographed-to-music that KFOG puts on every year in San Francisco. Hugh and Grant had staked out a parking spot early in the day and left Hugh's '67 convertible Satellite to save our spot. When we got there shortly before dark, the big group of tailgaters parked next to the Satellite were thrilled to see us; they'd been admiring the car for hours.
It is an impressive thing, the Satellite, beautiful even if you're an old-cars guy or someone who's lived with it a while and fallen in love. It's long and wide, a bold and unapologetic road hog, pale yellow with black seats. There's nothing better than riding around in the sun, music blasting, three of us across the front bench seat and three in the back, with room to spare.
So... our Kaboom parking lot neighbors greeted us with hearty handshakes and cold beer, and followed it up with homemade fudge. The kids jumped in and around the Satellite, bouncing a beach ball back and forth.. The crowd was giddy with fireworks-anticipation, and everybody was everybody else's friend. The low-hanging fog meant the fireworks were not quite the sight they could've been, but the atmosphere was crackling good and the explosions thudded right through your heart.
“Mummy,” Eli said, hands pressed against his chest, “even if I were deaf, I could still feeeeel the fireworks.”
When the show was over we gathered together: me, Hugh, John, Rosie, Grant, Caiman, Eli, Kai and Taavi, and divvied ourselves between Grant's mini-van and the Satellite. Caiman said he'd ride home with Grant; I assured John and Rosie the rest of us would all fit into the Satellite.
And we did, more or less: Hugh driving and Rosie riding shotgun, Eli between them. In the back seat, I held a blanketed bundled of Taavi on my lap, and threw one arm around Kai, who was all wrapped up in a sleeping bag, and John sat beside Kai. Not crowded... cozy! We rolled slowly and patiently out of the parking lot, crowds parting for us and smiling. We drove through the city streets toward the freeway, top down. The cold felt good.
Hugh popped Pure Funk into the CD player, “Brick House” boomed, and the cold felt even better, and we all sang along.
At a stoplight a block from the freeway entrance, Hugh started to put the top up.
“Leave it down!” I said, because it was some kind of wonderful back there. You ride around in that thing and you feel like you own the city—skyline, fog and all. You feel like the moon is yours.
“It'll be cold back there.”
“It's okay,” I said, “It's fine.”
“Will the kids be warm enough?” John asked of Kai and Taavi. But I could tell he wanted it down, too, there was a hint of excitement in his voice, and he was sitting up and straight and owning the moon, too.
“They're fine,” I promised.
On the Bay Bridge, the wind was icy. I snuggled Kai tight; she was just a bundle of sleeping bag and tousled blond hair. Taavi was completely under his blanket, but every time he peeked out or I peeked in, he was laughing, eyes dancing, bubbling over with joy. John and I exchanged stupid smiles, and Rosie kept peeking over her shoulder to grin at John. Her eyes were dancing, too, and I realized that the Satellite, top-down on a cold, San Francisco night—especially with Chaka Khan belting out “Tell me something good!”—was some kind of magical, love-inducing super machine.
It was so very powerful, in fact, that not even the smashed Honda, the moving violation, the car that wouldn't start, the $250 parking ticket and the hit & run could drag my car karma down to zero. Add my good samaritan + Hugh bailing me out whenever I'm stranded or crashed & smashed?
I am definitely doing alright. (Thanks for asking, Jenna, Stephie and all!)
