There was Hair in my Mouth and Glass in my Pants
A dinner passed in easy time, old friends telling stories in a nostalgic haze of eating after a day in the Rocky Mountains. We knew each other best as hikers, who had shared a trail and destination, where identity was simply behavior, while our journey kept from time to time in parallel pace.
Now Will and I crossed the small-town street corner and encountered his friends who were walking towards us, a rambunctious group of high-spirited men, who headed to dinner after a how do you do. Distracted by the energy of friends and charisma of creative men, I unlocked the car. The passenger side was arranged for the single traveler, me in a nutshell, so I made room for Will. A pinkish dusk settled over the little valley. The lateness of the day dulled the contained landscape of a narrow riverbed meandering the floor between brown, steep mountainsides, which lost depth from the meager reach of the sun. The road that wound with the river rose above a small pond, hugged a blasted hill that was now more of a cliff, and we shared the view of a town with more wild amongst it than civilized. We chatted amiably. We savored the view. We were satisfied. The road turned to avoid a jutting on our right. Compulsively I checked the speedometer again to see my speed below the limit. I took my chapstick out of my pocket, removed the cap, applied it, put the cap back on, and slipped it back into my pocket, keeping one hand on the wheel. At this moment I remember, my easy state of mind was prideful for my chapstick-while-driving skill, until Will exclaimed in a loud voice.
He had spotted what appeared then at my window: this tall scruffy elk whose eye caught mine in surprise, a sentiment I shared with the animal, which cranked up to shock as the vehicle and the creature collided. I heard a pop. A million tiny balls of shatterproof glass appeared in the air about us. Will's voice deepened with fear as he spoke ‘oh my god’ after an object flew into the car before our bodies. I slammed the breaks. I brought my hands from the wheel to my head.
That was three seconds.
I drove the car to the side of the road. The elk lay on the ground behind us. I reached into my mouth, fingers searching for the foreign pieces I felt on my tongue, and tweezed out pieces of glass and hair. My back was scratched from all the glass between me and the seat. There was more hair in my mouth. Disaster. Death? Irresponsibility. The hairs were thick and musty and carried a coat of the woods and wild dust of the valley.
Our eyes focused. The car was full of glass and hair. Will reached down to his feet. As he lifted the sideview mirrow, he said ‘I thought this was the head.' I apologized for what felt like recklessness. I should have seen it. I should have stopped. Will managed words of comfort. Shivers of guilt and stress crept through my shaken hands, holding the wheel, into something like purpose. I had to fix the car. ‘Let’s find somewhere to get this fixed.' I put the car in first gear and made a u-turn to return to town. The elk was gone.
Will said nothing that I heard. The responsibility settled on me, the car needed shelter overnight so the bears and raccoons and skunks didn't find it and make a nest or rip the interior apart in search of the trail mix that I spilled a week ago between the emergency brake and the driver's seat. If it was too late for repair, I must drop off the car at a garage. The first sign Will read was Auto Glass Repair. The doors were locked. In the parking lot, next to a family restaurant, I called AAA for a recommendation. Will picked the hairs from my fleece jacket. Then his face formed concern as he picked behind my left ear. There must be a cut, I realized, from the impact, and I couldn’t feel any pain, until he picked. It must be bloody. Then I saw the tick between his fingers. ‘You should seriously check yourself tonight, I already found two on me.’ But I was explaining to Tom at AAA that I did not need a tow, the car worked fine. Tom seemed confused at my call then, and volunteered to check on approved mechanics near my location. 'Of course, nothing will be open now.' How strange, I thought. There wasn’t a thing in a twenty-mile radius. I hung up.
Then we surveyed the damage and I took pictures while Will texted his friends. Inside, glass and hair had found their way into every crevice, every wrinkle, into my clothes and pockets and into the to-go container from the restaurant, but I didn’t check that until the next morning. The mirror was gone, there was no window left except a rough corner where a little blood congealed near the roof among the tiny shards stuck to the doorframe. On the ceiling, two ticks clung to the upholstery, dead from the impact or distance traveled. I continued to apologize to Will, to communicate my embarrassment, my shame, which he calmly alleviated. Slowly the shock was wearing off. Then I realized how that tick had come to stick behind my ear. Will reminded me then that it was past 7 on Memorial Day and all the businesses were closed. Tom's comment made sense. ‘Oh, well we better just park it at your camp tonight and I’ll get it fixed in the morning.’ He nodded in agreement; relieved I had finally come to that most rational of conclusions.
Back at camp Will helped me tape plastic to the door for a makeshift window and I talked to my insurance provider. Then I lost at monopoly. In the morning, just after dawn, I was awake.
The story ends happily. I got the car fixed and insurance covered it. I still blame the elk.
Now Will and I crossed the small-town street corner and encountered his friends who were walking towards us, a rambunctious group of high-spirited men, who headed to dinner after a how do you do. Distracted by the energy of friends and charisma of creative men, I unlocked the car. The passenger side was arranged for the single traveler, me in a nutshell, so I made room for Will. A pinkish dusk settled over the little valley. The lateness of the day dulled the contained landscape of a narrow riverbed meandering the floor between brown, steep mountainsides, which lost depth from the meager reach of the sun. The road that wound with the river rose above a small pond, hugged a blasted hill that was now more of a cliff, and we shared the view of a town with more wild amongst it than civilized. We chatted amiably. We savored the view. We were satisfied. The road turned to avoid a jutting on our right. Compulsively I checked the speedometer again to see my speed below the limit. I took my chapstick out of my pocket, removed the cap, applied it, put the cap back on, and slipped it back into my pocket, keeping one hand on the wheel. At this moment I remember, my easy state of mind was prideful for my chapstick-while-driving skill, until Will exclaimed in a loud voice.
He had spotted what appeared then at my window: this tall scruffy elk whose eye caught mine in surprise, a sentiment I shared with the animal, which cranked up to shock as the vehicle and the creature collided. I heard a pop. A million tiny balls of shatterproof glass appeared in the air about us. Will's voice deepened with fear as he spoke ‘oh my god’ after an object flew into the car before our bodies. I slammed the breaks. I brought my hands from the wheel to my head.
That was three seconds.
I drove the car to the side of the road. The elk lay on the ground behind us. I reached into my mouth, fingers searching for the foreign pieces I felt on my tongue, and tweezed out pieces of glass and hair. My back was scratched from all the glass between me and the seat. There was more hair in my mouth. Disaster. Death? Irresponsibility. The hairs were thick and musty and carried a coat of the woods and wild dust of the valley.
Our eyes focused. The car was full of glass and hair. Will reached down to his feet. As he lifted the sideview mirrow, he said ‘I thought this was the head.' I apologized for what felt like recklessness. I should have seen it. I should have stopped. Will managed words of comfort. Shivers of guilt and stress crept through my shaken hands, holding the wheel, into something like purpose. I had to fix the car. ‘Let’s find somewhere to get this fixed.' I put the car in first gear and made a u-turn to return to town. The elk was gone.
Will said nothing that I heard. The responsibility settled on me, the car needed shelter overnight so the bears and raccoons and skunks didn't find it and make a nest or rip the interior apart in search of the trail mix that I spilled a week ago between the emergency brake and the driver's seat. If it was too late for repair, I must drop off the car at a garage. The first sign Will read was Auto Glass Repair. The doors were locked. In the parking lot, next to a family restaurant, I called AAA for a recommendation. Will picked the hairs from my fleece jacket. Then his face formed concern as he picked behind my left ear. There must be a cut, I realized, from the impact, and I couldn’t feel any pain, until he picked. It must be bloody. Then I saw the tick between his fingers. ‘You should seriously check yourself tonight, I already found two on me.’ But I was explaining to Tom at AAA that I did not need a tow, the car worked fine. Tom seemed confused at my call then, and volunteered to check on approved mechanics near my location. 'Of course, nothing will be open now.' How strange, I thought. There wasn’t a thing in a twenty-mile radius. I hung up.
Then we surveyed the damage and I took pictures while Will texted his friends. Inside, glass and hair had found their way into every crevice, every wrinkle, into my clothes and pockets and into the to-go container from the restaurant, but I didn’t check that until the next morning. The mirror was gone, there was no window left except a rough corner where a little blood congealed near the roof among the tiny shards stuck to the doorframe. On the ceiling, two ticks clung to the upholstery, dead from the impact or distance traveled. I continued to apologize to Will, to communicate my embarrassment, my shame, which he calmly alleviated. Slowly the shock was wearing off. Then I realized how that tick had come to stick behind my ear. Will reminded me then that it was past 7 on Memorial Day and all the businesses were closed. Tom's comment made sense. ‘Oh, well we better just park it at your camp tonight and I’ll get it fixed in the morning.’ He nodded in agreement; relieved I had finally come to that most rational of conclusions.
Back at camp Will helped me tape plastic to the door for a makeshift window and I talked to my insurance provider. Then I lost at monopoly. In the morning, just after dawn, I was awake.
The story ends happily. I got the car fixed and insurance covered it. I still blame the elk.
posted by Sara Haxby at
5:02 PM
