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Hit & Run #2
Last night, Teri and I were sitting in the living room watching season premiere of The West Wing. Sebastian had just fallen asleep on his little swing.
Suddenly we heard a loud "BANG" from outside. It was a sound I've heard before: the sound of a car plowing into another car. We looked out the window and sure enough, a white pickup had plowed into the back of my old Honda.
The truck was just sitting there, rammed into the rear bumper. We couldn't see if anyone was in the driver's seat. I went to get my shoes and Teri called the police while watching the pickup. Before I could get my shoes on, though, the pickup suddenly started up again and went backwards up the street. It backed into a side lot and began to turn around, obviously preparing to leave the scene.
In a flash I was out the door and pounding down the street after it, barefoot. Behind me, Teri was shouting "Get the license plate!". I was afraid that the pickup would get away before I could get the plate, but it was moving slowly; I got within a few feet of it and nailed the number cleanly. Then I headed back to the house to wait for the police.
As I was on the front walk to the door the pickup came back. Lumbering up over the curb, it came after me, smashing through our white picket fence, the horn blaring as it raced towards me. The engine hit a high note as the pickup accellerated towards me and the front door. Death was only an instant away.
Okay, sorry. I often fear that my blog is too boring. It needs to be punched up a little, but I guess veering into fiction isn't the answer. Let's get back to reality:
As I was on the front walk to the door the pickup came back. The driver seemed kind of sprawled in the middle of the front seat as he called out "What's the problem?"
He had some sort of accent, and sounded a bit slurred; I couldn't tell if he was drunk. "You hit my car!" I answered, angrily. Long-time Chatter readers may remember that my Honda was also hit-and-run a few years ago, and that the perpetrator was never caught. I was sort of flashing back.
"No I didn't!" He sounded sort of confused, possibly under the influence.
"We saw you!"
"So what (mumble)?"
"I got your plate and we've called the police."
Silence. I went back into the house, and the pickup slowly drove down the street and turned right at the end.
Less than five minutes later the police came down the street. They took the information, looked at the damage (the rear bumper had been disconnected from the car on the left side), and asked if I wanted to file a report. They also told me that the car's registration had expired in August, which wasn't surprising since I'd stopped driving it before then. I had planned to junk it a while ago, but never got around to it.
I talked it over quickly with Teri, and we decided not to press charges; it wasn't worth it. The cops were okay with that, and suggested that I get the car off the street, if I could.
And that was pretty much it. It might all seem like a tempest in a teapot, and perhaps we shouldn't have called the police (not true, always call the police when there has been an accident - and wait until they arrive). But there was one good thing about the situation: parked directly in front of my old Honda was Teri's new (used) van. If the Honda hadn't been there, the van would have been hit instead. Funny, huh?
Suddenly we heard a loud "BANG" from outside. It was a sound I've heard before: the sound of a car plowing into another car. We looked out the window and sure enough, a white pickup had plowed into the back of my old Honda.
The truck was just sitting there, rammed into the rear bumper. We couldn't see if anyone was in the driver's seat. I went to get my shoes and Teri called the police while watching the pickup. Before I could get my shoes on, though, the pickup suddenly started up again and went backwards up the street. It backed into a side lot and began to turn around, obviously preparing to leave the scene.
In a flash I was out the door and pounding down the street after it, barefoot. Behind me, Teri was shouting "Get the license plate!". I was afraid that the pickup would get away before I could get the plate, but it was moving slowly; I got within a few feet of it and nailed the number cleanly. Then I headed back to the house to wait for the police.
As I was on the front walk to the door the pickup came back. Lumbering up over the curb, it came after me, smashing through our white picket fence, the horn blaring as it raced towards me. The engine hit a high note as the pickup accellerated towards me and the front door. Death was only an instant away.
Okay, sorry. I often fear that my blog is too boring. It needs to be punched up a little, but I guess veering into fiction isn't the answer. Let's get back to reality:
As I was on the front walk to the door the pickup came back. The driver seemed kind of sprawled in the middle of the front seat as he called out "What's the problem?"
He had some sort of accent, and sounded a bit slurred; I couldn't tell if he was drunk. "You hit my car!" I answered, angrily. Long-time Chatter readers may remember that my Honda was also hit-and-run a few years ago, and that the perpetrator was never caught. I was sort of flashing back.
"No I didn't!" He sounded sort of confused, possibly under the influence.
"We saw you!"
"So what (mumble)?"
"I got your plate and we've called the police."
Silence. I went back into the house, and the pickup slowly drove down the street and turned right at the end.
Less than five minutes later the police came down the street. They took the information, looked at the damage (the rear bumper had been disconnected from the car on the left side), and asked if I wanted to file a report. They also told me that the car's registration had expired in August, which wasn't surprising since I'd stopped driving it before then. I had planned to junk it a while ago, but never got around to it.
I talked it over quickly with Teri, and we decided not to press charges; it wasn't worth it. The cops were okay with that, and suggested that I get the car off the street, if I could.
And that was pretty much it. It might all seem like a tempest in a teapot, and perhaps we shouldn't have called the police (not true, always call the police when there has been an accident - and wait until they arrive). But there was one good thing about the situation: parked directly in front of my old Honda was Teri's new (used) van. If the Honda hadn't been there, the van would have been hit instead. Funny, huh?