Highway 80 Eastbound, just before Pinole, sun setting behind me, rain starting to fall more heavily, there’s a sudden slow-down ahead and I brake quickly, then very hard as the car in front of me stops completely. In the rearview mirror a white Toyota Sienna comes barreling down on me and I know I’m about to be hit. The impact is so hard, loud and jarring. “Fuck!” I yell. “You fucking idiot!”. I think of the little Honda and the $400 we’ve just spent on repair and my trunk full of art supplies and my roadtrip and how I’ll just have to hang out with Miles in Sacramento the whole time because the car is finished.
So I turn my signal on and work my way right across the freeway and I see immediately that the minivan is following me and that they’ll stop with me. I pull over finally and stop and I open the door without turning off the car and then close it or something and the seatbelt seems to be broken and I think the whole car has been crumpled, squished, and I disconnect the automatic seatbelt and pull the trunk lever but figure the tail is probably so crunched that the trunk won’t open and I wonder how I’ll get my notebook and camera out.
But when I make it out and around to the back I see the trunk is open and the bumper isn’t even dented and the little asian man is examining the front of his van and he looks at me and raises his hand apologetically and I give him my worst “yeah, you fucked up” glare, but quickly soften as he asks if I’m OK, which I am, and I ask him if he’s OK and he is and his wife inside the van is OK too.
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