The Accident

I started moving forward, but was held back by the officer again. "Stay with your vehicle, Sir. I will be with you in a moment." He led Rebecca back to his car and placed her safely into the back seat. I figured I was next. She must have mentioned the beer. Why else would she be sorry? But, why would he arrest her? I stood in the road, like an idiot, in my Ghostbusters boxers.

"Mr. Richardson?" the officer queried as he approached me, reading my name off his notebook.

"Yes."

"I am going to need to see your license, registration and proof of insurance," the officer stated. He pulled a metal clipboard in front of him, accepted my documents and placed them under the clip. "I should be able to give you a report in fifteen minutes and get you on your way. There are tow trucks on the way." He walked to the front of my vehicle to get my license plate number.

"Why did you arrest Ms. Morrison?"

"She's operating on a restricted license," the officer said, never looking up from his clipboard, "to and from work only." He moved forward with a flashlight to read my VIN number through the windshield. "She will be charged with reckless driving for this accident. That and violating her court restrictions puts her in the felony category." He looked up at me, "Sit tight for a few moments while I run your information, and I'll get you a copy of my accident report for your insurance company."

"You don't want my side of the accident?"

"It won't be necessary," the officer responded, "Ms. Morrison has taken full responsibility for it. Texting while driving causes more of these than you know." He shrugged his shoulders and headed back to his vehicle. He stopped halfway and turned, "I would like to know what you're doing in your underwear."

"Ah..I had a taste for tacos." I fumbled. "I was just going to go through the drive-thru. Didn't figure I would get in an accident."

"No one ever does." He nodded with a half grin and continued on his way. I looked at the police car, but was unable to see Rebecca inside. I realized I had hurt her when I snapped at her questions. I was feeling guilty she was taking responsibility. Damn it, she was responsible. The smile was real though -- I knew that now. She could have played the DUI card on me. She had the gall to apologize. Ten percent her fault, ninety percent pure asshole for me. I should have just driven straight home.

The tow trucks arrived, two large flat beds with winches to pull the vehicles aboard. I watched as the two drivers separated the vehicles by bouncing themselves on my rear bumper. Somehow I had figured it would have been a more technical solution. I retrieved my phone from the car before Ralph, the driver to the truck that would take my car, pulled it onto the flatbed. When both vehicles were loaded, they did a quick sweep up of the street to collect the shattered remnants.

The officer returned just as the tow truck drivers were finishing. "Here is a copy of the initial report. Ms. Morrison's contact information, insurance and contact information for the owner of the SUV. I have stapled my card on the top if there are any issues."

"She doesn't own the vehicle?"

"No," the officer answered, "I don't have the insurance details on the vehicle yet." He handed me my license, registration and insurance card.

"What's going to happen to her?" I asked, gesturing to his vehicle with my head.

"Ms. Morrison will be taken to County," the officer responded, "she'll spend the night and probably post bail in the morning." I felt horrible. I knew I shouldn't, but I did. I misinterpreted the smile. I had to try to forget. It wasn't my fault she rear-ended me. Why did I feel so guilty about her going to jail? It was the Barrow effect. I had assumed she was a bitch like my ex. Now all I saw was desperation followed by surrender. I made her surrender. I would have felt better about myself if she would have remained a bitch. Then, at least, I wouldn't blame myself for the accident I didn't cause.

Ralph drove me and my car back to his garage business. It was a small shop with a large fenced-in yard containing a dozen wrecked vehicles, all in a line. Mine extended the line. I called my insurance company while he unloaded and I arranged for a rental for the next day. Carl, red eyed and sleepy, picked me up and drove me home. He found my state of dress very humorous, and worth the trip out in the dead of night. I was sure the story would be repeated loudly for many years to come.

++++++++++

It was nearly lunchtime. I had been in meetings all morning and could barely keep my focus, not that many meetings needed focus. Lately, most of our gatherings at work were to allow people to tout their current achievements and feign the need for input. This morning, I actually attended a meeting to schedule more meetings. Thus was my life at Bradford Insurance and Casualty.

I was paid well to design and optimize databases. Mostly query optimization. A topic that always thrilled at parties. The work had become easy over the years, almost non-thinking. I was good at it and found it like riding a bike. It was everyone else's ignorance of the subject that allowed me a nice bi-weekly income.

There were only two things in my life that disturbed my comfortable tedium. One was driven by the Bitch, no cross that off, Linda Barrow. That was over now. The other was the accident of the previous night. It had my mind drifting during the meetings. I still was not sure how to measure my assholeness. I was unable to force myself to accept none of it was really my fault. Rebecca brought it on herself. Every time I thought about it being her fault, I'd see her smile. I thought it a con used by a smart woman, but it had warmth, not malice, in it. Her lips mouthing 'sorry' at me. I had hurt her more than she had hurt my car.

I returned to my cubicle and caved into my own self-wrought guiltiness. I found the number for the County lock up online and, after three aborted attempts, punched in the number. I wasn't sure what I expected, but I needed to know Rebecca was okay. Most likely, I would never see her again anyway.

"County Corrections, how may I help you?" The voice was more pleasant than I expected. For some reason I expected a depressed sounding voice. Something akin to sticky misery.

"Hi," I said as I tried to collect my thoughts. I had never called a prison before. "I am calling about Rebecca Morrison." I heard some keyboard work.

"How may I help you, Sir?" the kind voice asked again. I wasn't sure. Why did I call?

"I wanted to make sure Ms. Morrison had made bail," I replied. I guess that is what concerned me. I wanted to make sure everything was not as grim as it appeared last night.

"No, Sir," the voice responded, "Ms. Morrison is still here with us." Crap! Why did I call? It made me feel worse, not better as I had intended. I sighed and decided to sink deeper into the quagmire.

"May I speak with her?"

"I can take a message to her, Sir." The voice was practiced at these requests. "She will have to return your call." I wasn't sure she would return my call.

"No, thank you," I replied and hung up. I took a deep breath and stared out my window. A phenomenal view of the parking lot greeted my eyes, though I didn't really see any of it. It took me seven years to wrangle a cubical next to a window, and now I just took it for granted.

'It wasn't my fault' I told myself as I stood. "This is really stupid," I said under my breath, to myself as I entered my car. "I'm a fucking idiot," I reminded myself, out loud, as I pulled into the County lock up.

"I would like to post bail for Rebecca Morrison," I told the clerk at the gated window. The waiting room, if that is what it was, was filled with plastic chairs they must have sourced from the DMV. They were lined up in two rows, as if there would be a lot of people waiting. I was the sole person. The clerk pointed to a door off to the side and pushed a button under his counter. A buzzer sounded, the lock clicked and I opened the door without instruction. Cattle are trained in such ways.

Like a bank, a row of teller positions, each with a 'next window' sign, were lined up along a counter. Only one position was open, but no clerk was waiting. I walked up and waited. So much for the cordial phone conversation I had earlier. My opinion of the lock up lowered greatly. It was a few minutes before a small woman with gray hair sauntered up.

"May I help?" the woman asked. My grandmother used to do up her hair like hers. All curly and shaped perfectly round. I suspected she spent a large portion of her government paycheck on maintaining it.

"I would like to post bail for Rebecca Morrison," I repeated for her benefit. The woman reached below the counter, without looking, and retrieved a form. She typed in a few things on a keyboard and nodded. Then I heard a laser printer behind her kick up. She handed me a pen and pushed the form to me.

"Fill in everything above this line." She pointed at a thick black line about three quarters down the page. She retrieved the paper from the printer and returned to me. "It is three thousand -- cash, money order or credit card." My heart took a little jump. I had been thinking a few hundred. I tried not to look shocked as the woman stared at me. I should have asked while I was on the phone.

"Of course," I responded as I retrieved my wallet from my back pocket. I handed her my credit card while trying to hold my hand steady. This was a truly stupid idea.

"There is a five percent non-refundable service charge on credit cards," she informed me. I noticed she took the card before she told me. I did quick math in my head, fifteen... no, one hundred fifty dollars, and I didn't even know if Rebecca would skip on the three thousand to boot. I was a complete fool.

I filled out the form as the woman ran my card. My hand was shaking, and my left eye had a twitch that didn't seem to want to stop. Name, address, phone number and relation to the imprisoned. I was not sure what to put on the relation line. 'Friend' seemed inappropriate since I had clearly told her I wasn't. Certainly not 'family.' 'Acquaintance' seemed the most likely. Then I smiled and wrote 'victim.' Screw it.

I had to sign at the bottom to attest that I understood the bond would be forfeited if Rebecca failed to show at any of her appointed court appearances. I was committed, so I signed. The lady returned, had me sign a charge receipt, stapled it and the paper from the printer to my form. She took an official stamp, inked the bottom of the form and signed it. She lifted the form and looked at the sheet from the printer.

"Please take a chair in the waiting room." She pointed to the door I had entered. "Ms. Morrison will be with you shortly." She turned and walked to a small room where another clerk was busy with a pile of papers. That was the quickest three thousand I had ever spent. I returned to the waiting room and sat on one of the plastic chairs.

It was twenty minutes before a buzzer sounded, and a door farther down the room opened. Rebecca exited slowly, her eyes red, her blonde hair disheveled. She had not slept well. I stood and began to worry about what I would say. I had no good answers for why I would stupidly help her.

"You paid my bail?" She had stopped walking and stood about ten feet away from me. I could see concern in her eyes. Maybe she thought I expected something.

"It felt wrong," I answered poorly, "I don't know why, but I didn't want you to spend the day in there." Her head tilted slightly as she considered what I said. "You will go to court, right?" I added, my three thousand dollars still weighed heavily on my mind. I think it was the wrong thing to ask. I saw her eyes water and I began to rethink what I couldn't unsay.

Rebecca moved toward me, her bottom lip trembling. She entered my personal space with no reservations and hugged me. "Thank you for not hating me," she said, then the floodgates opened. I could do nothing but hold her. I hadn't been anyone's shoulder in a very long time. I was out of practice. Nothing I could think of to say seemed appropriate. She was a blank slate to me, and prison didn't seem to be the only thing she cried about. Something deeper was wrong. I should not have come -- she needed her own Carl.

"Can I give you a lift home?" I asked softly. The closeness was uncomfortable, and I needed to get back to work. Rebecca wiped her eyes and broke her embrace. The absence of her arms around me was strangely disconcerting. Maybe I shouldn't have spoken quite so soon.

"I am sorry for last night," Rebecca admitted. Her remorse showed in her hazel eyes. "I was desperate and thought....I don't know what I was thinking. I am not normally a bitch." She gave me half a smile. It was a weak, non-confident smile that wrapped her apology.

"I wasn't at my best either," I said, "my last words to you were... misguided." I was doing it, apologizing to the woman who rear-ended me. I had no spine. Maybe Linda had ripped it out of me when I wasn't looking. "I have to get back to work. Can I drop you somewhere?" I asked again.

"I'm not sure," Rebecca said, "maybe my sister's." The 'maybe' was disturbing. She must have seen the confusion in my face. "I was staying with a friend." Her expression looked shy, and her cheeks reddened. "That was her SUV last night. She isn't answering my calls." Homeless? I was in deeper shit than I had envisioned.

"Your sister's then," I said with a false smile, gesturing toward the door. The quicker I could drop her off, the better I would feel. I already did the white-knight thing and had repaired my soul. It was time to exercise my spine. Rebecca smiled and led the way to the door, which I opened for her. I tried not to notice how well she filled in her jeans. I needed more backbone.

Rebecca pulled out her phone and fiddled with it as we walked. "Phone's dead," she informed me, "couldn't charge it last night." I smiled, anxious to get her on her way, and pulled out mine and entered my code. "Thank you," she said as I handed it to her. She laughed as she tried typing in the number a few times. "I don't know the last time I had to remember her number."

"Hard to live without your contact list," I agreed. I reached the car and unlocked the doors, opening the passenger side for Rebecca. She stalled before she entered, raising one hand up to me and the other holding the phone to her ear. I waited as she listened intently.

"Cathy, it's Becca. I need to stay with you for a few days. Call me as soon as you get this," Rebecca stated and hung up. "She's not answering right now," she said, looking a little distraught. The feeling was mutual. Rebecca tried to hand me my phone, and clipped the side of the car door with it. Her eyes went wide when it fell from her hand. It spun away from us and landed glass-down on the pavement. The sound of it hitting was not pleasant.

"Oh, no!" Rebecca cried as she squatted to pick it up. I closed my eyes, knowing what the ugly sound meant. "Oh, no," Rebecca said again as she turned the phone over in her hand. "I am so sorry." Her voice sounded choked. I opened my eyes. The glass on my new phone had a thick crack running from one corner, diagonally across the face, to the other. The upper corner had a small web of cracks to mark the original landing point. "I didn't mean..." she started.

"I know!" I said way too loudly. Rebecca jerked at my tone. "I know," I said more calmly. She presented the phone to me, her hand shaking. I took a deep breath and took it from her. I pushed the button and a psychedelic array of colors appeared; the screen was unreadable.

"I should just wait here," Rebecca said, and began to back away. "I'll call my sister from inside," she said, pointing at the door we had exited from. I could see tears forming in her eyes. I felt like shit, and my phone was broken. I knew then that she was a curse. It was my own fault for thinking I owed her something this morning.

"No," I said quietly. I put the paperweight of a phone in my pocket. "I'm not leaving you here." It was only a phone, and not the first one I have broken. I stepped to the side and gestured for Rebecca to get in. She didn't move. She looked at me with tears running down her cheeks. "I know you didn't mean it. It's only a phone," I said calmly.

"It happens a lot," Rebecca cried. She turned and moved back toward the building, her face in her hands. Shit. I ran to catch up with her.

"Rebecca, come on, don't stay here." The thought of leaving her here at the prison defeated the whole purpose of bailing her out. She turned to me, her cheeks flooded with smeared tears.

"I broke your car and your phone, and I don't even know if I can get your jeans back." Those were my best jeans. I shook the thought out of my mind.

"The jeans were old," I lied, "the car and phone are insured. They were just accidents."

"I am a walking accident," Rebecca cried, for the second time in less than ten minutes, I let her cry on my shoulder. I held her as best I could, in the middle of the parking lot. This time, I held her better.

"Look," I suggested stupidly, "I have to get back to work. I'll drop you at my place. I still have a land-line. You can call your sister and straighten everything out." I don't know why I trusted Rebecca. She just didn't seem like she was truly dishonest. Not the way she caved when she thought I was angry with her last night. She sniffled and broke her embrace; mine was a slower release.

"I'm not sure that's a good idea," Rebecca replied. She wiped her eyes and looked at me. "It would be better for you if you left me here."

"Nope," I said truthfully, "I think I would be happier if I knew you were okay and not stuck in a prison waiting room." I was already in too deep to stop now. "I have to protect my investment." I smiled to soften the message. I got a small smile back. It was better than the crying. At least I was a thoughtful idiot.

"Okay, but just until I get hold of my sister," Rebecca agreed. I smiled again and led her back to my car. I got her seated and closed the passenger door. I walked around the car calling myself a moron under my breath. I knew this wasn't the wisest course of action, but I kind of forced myself into it by showing up in the first place.

"Why did you bail me out?" Rebecca asked carefully as I pulled out of the parking lot. That question had no good answer. Maybe she was as confused as I.

"Why did you tell the cop the truth last night?" I responded with my own question.

"I didn't like myself after you yelled at me," Rebecca answered, "being arrested was better than having you hate me." Her honesty was surprising. I had thought she would dodge the question as I had.

"Why did they arrest you? The cop said you were on a restricted license, but usually they just give you a ticket or something." Rebecca looked down at her feet, and I instantly regretted asking. I was about to change the subject when she spoke.

"Things happen to me," Rebecca responded cryptically, "I know they're my fault, like your phone. Its just not on purpose. It seems to happen a lot." She brushed imaginary dust off her jeans and absently picked at one of the leg seams."I really shouldn't drive." She looked up at me and there was sadness in her eyes. "I am so sorry about last night. Not just the accident, but trying to dump the blame on you." She sounded completely sincere.

"So, there are a lot of accidents," I said stupidly. My attention returned to the road. For some reason I became more aware of my own driving.

"Is it okay if I don't tell you how many?" Rebecca asked softly. I could feel the embarrassment in her voice. It didn't really matter how many, I was only involved with one. I shifted the subject.