got nowhere. I leaned over for a clearer view, veered all the way into the breakdown lane and whipped in front of them.
I had hoped forensic work would be more about facts than feelings, more about the evidence than about me. It wasn't turning out that way. Something inside me kept blinding me to the destructiveness in people — in Prescott, and now in Westmoreland.
I sped through a yellow light at Bell Circle in Revere and tried to cut across two lanes to make the entrance to Route 1A. When I turned the wheel, the car kept going straight. "Christ," I muttered. "Not now." I steered into the skid and pumped the brakes. Just as I felt rubber grabbing the road, an old, red Mustang tried to slip past me. I flipped into low gear and pumped faster. I managed to miss the driver's side door but smashed into his rear quarter panel.
I got the Rover back in control and kept driving around the rotary. Part of me wanted to race toward Boston. My insurance had been canceled for nonpayment, and I had six delinquent parking tickets in the glove compartment. If the police got involved, they'd boot my car and confiscate my license. I checked my rearview mirror and saw the Mustang pulling into a Dunkin’ Donuts parking lot off the rotary. I shook my head. The last thing I needed was a hit-and-run on my record. I finished the lap, swung into the lot and parked between two other cars.
The driver of the Mustang, a short, stocky kid about twenty, was pacing in front of the dent, holding his head in his hands. I walked over and looked at the car. The rear quarter panel and taillight were crushed, a hubcap was mangled and the bumper was dented and hanging loose.
He glared at me. He was pulling nervously at his Grateful Dead T-shirt. "You stupid sack of shit!" he spewed.
The best way to exhaust someone's rage is to run ahead of it. "What an asshole I am!" I sputtered. "What was I thinking?"
He glanced back at me. "Damn," he said, almost calmly. He paced a little, then started in, again. "How goddamn fast—"
"I'm such a shithead, I can't believe it." I looked around to make sure no cops were driving by. "What is this, a ’67?"
"Sixty-four and a half."
Just my luck, crashing into a classic. "Perfect condition."
"Until now, you mother—"
"I can't fucking believe what I did."
"I drove to Vermont to get that hubcap," he said, his voice cracking. He shook his head. He was winding down. "Let's exchange everything and get this over with."
I didn't want to exchange anything. "Why don't I take care of it so we don't have to get insurance companies involved."
"Take care of it?"
"The repair." I took the wad of hundreds from Wonderland out of my pocket. "How much do you think is fair?"
He looked at the money. "I'm not sure about this. I think we should do this the regular way."
"The regular way? With a 64½ ?" I walked around to the back of his car to check his license plate. "You don't even have this registered as a classic. The insurance company will never ante up for original parts."
He looked back at his stomach. "The taillight alone goes four, five hundred, if you can find it."
"You'll find it. Let's say fifteen hundred, total."
"Like I told you, the light's five by itself. I got no idea about the bumper, let alone the panel. There could be axle damage."
I thought about bringing up the fact that his license plate also carried a code for people who are supposed to be wearing glasses when they drive — which he wasn't — but I couldn't afford to piss him off. "So what's fair?"
"I don't know. Twenty-five, at least."
"Twenty-five?" Out of the corner of my eye I saw a police cruiser entering the rotary. You can't stay ten minutes at a Dunkin’ Donuts without a cop turning up. "Done," I said. I started counting.
The kid took my cash, and I dragged myself back to the Rover. The right front corner was flattened, and the fog light
I had hoped forensic work would be more about facts than feelings, more about the evidence than about me. It wasn't turning out that way. Something inside me kept blinding me to the destructiveness in people — in Prescott, and now in Westmoreland.
I sped through a yellow light at Bell Circle in Revere and tried to cut across two lanes to make the entrance to Route 1A. When I turned the wheel, the car kept going straight. "Christ," I muttered. "Not now." I steered into the skid and pumped the brakes. Just as I felt rubber grabbing the road, an old, red Mustang tried to slip past me. I flipped into low gear and pumped faster. I managed to miss the driver's side door but smashed into his rear quarter panel.
I got the Rover back in control and kept driving around the rotary. Part of me wanted to race toward Boston. My insurance had been canceled for nonpayment, and I had six delinquent parking tickets in the glove compartment. If the police got involved, they'd boot my car and confiscate my license. I checked my rearview mirror and saw the Mustang pulling into a Dunkin’ Donuts parking lot off the rotary. I shook my head. The last thing I needed was a hit-and-run on my record. I finished the lap, swung into the lot and parked between two other cars.
The driver of the Mustang, a short, stocky kid about twenty, was pacing in front of the dent, holding his head in his hands. I walked over and looked at the car. The rear quarter panel and taillight were crushed, a hubcap was mangled and the bumper was dented and hanging loose.
He glared at me. He was pulling nervously at his Grateful Dead T-shirt. "You stupid sack of shit!" he spewed.
The best way to exhaust someone's rage is to run ahead of it. "What an asshole I am!" I sputtered. "What was I thinking?"
He glanced back at me. "Damn," he said, almost calmly. He paced a little, then started in, again. "How goddamn fast—"
"I'm such a shithead, I can't believe it." I looked around to make sure no cops were driving by. "What is this, a ’67?"
"Sixty-four and a half."
Just my luck, crashing into a classic. "Perfect condition."
"Until now, you mother—"
"I can't fucking believe what I did."
"I drove to Vermont to get that hubcap," he said, his voice cracking. He shook his head. He was winding down. "Let's exchange everything and get this over with."
I didn't want to exchange anything. "Why don't I take care of it so we don't have to get insurance companies involved."
"Take care of it?"
"The repair." I took the wad of hundreds from Wonderland out of my pocket. "How much do you think is fair?"
He looked at the money. "I'm not sure about this. I think we should do this the regular way."
"The regular way? With a 64½ ?" I walked around to the back of his car to check his license plate. "You don't even have this registered as a classic. The insurance company will never ante up for original parts."
He looked back at his stomach. "The taillight alone goes four, five hundred, if you can find it."
"You'll find it. Let's say fifteen hundred, total."
"Like I told you, the light's five by itself. I got no idea about the bumper, let alone the panel. There could be axle damage."
I thought about bringing up the fact that his license plate also carried a code for people who are supposed to be wearing glasses when they drive — which he wasn't — but I couldn't afford to piss him off. "So what's fair?"
"I don't know. Twenty-five, at least."
"Twenty-five?" Out of the corner of my eye I saw a police cruiser entering the rotary. You can't stay ten minutes at a Dunkin’ Donuts without a cop turning up. "Done," I said. I started counting.
The kid took my cash, and I dragged myself back to the Rover. The right front corner was flattened, and the fog light
Similar Books
