I have never had good luck with cars, or anything motorized, for that matter. The first incident occurred when I was three, and I fell out of a golf cart and smacking my head on the ground. It was a drought year, so the Midwestern clay was particularly hard, and all I really remember is being in the hospital for hours, throwing up on my favorite blanket, then demanding that the nurse wash it over and over because it still smelled like puke. I sometimes wonder if she actually did re-wash it, because it seemed to come back awfully quickly, and never smelled any cleaner.
After that, there were series of minor accidents with golf carts culminating with me somehow driving onto a small evergreen tree and getting stuck bouncing up and down and not knowing how to make the cart go backward. I think my parents had to pay for the tree, and my friend’s dad hated me after that.
I borrowed a friend’s moped for a quick ride around the park, hit a patch of wet grass, and flopped over at 10 m.p.h.
Even though I didn’t get my driver’s license until I was 18, I totalled two cars by age 24, and had a series of ridiculous mechanical malfunctions that resulted in me being on a first-name basis with the head mechanic at Luther Family Ford.
In Winnipeg, MB, someone broke into my car and stole my stereo, purse, and friend’s jacket. My purse had my passport and social security card in it–plus it was awfully cute. Thankfully, I had my driver’s license in my pocket, so I was still able to get back into America. When I told my mother that I had been the victim of a crime, she yelled at me for leaving the country. When I told the police, they just shrugged.
One of the reasons that I picked Providence to move to, is that the internet told me it’s a very walkable city. Unfortunately, I’ve never actually had a job in Providence, so I’ve been commuting since I got here. I’ve also had two car accidents in this state, in less than two years. I’m starting to lose count of how many car accidents I’ve had, and I’m increasingly anxious on the road.
Last Thursday, Gentleman Caller (who shall soon get a new nickname, but I haven’t thought of one yet) and I went to Trader Joe’s. After the shop, we put the bags in the trunk of the car, but I decided that we should take out the peanut-butter filled, chocolate covered pretzels for the ride home. He didn’t realize I was going back in, and slammed the trunk door on my head.
Since I don’t have health insurance, there was nothing to do except take a lot of ibuprofen and feel sorry for myself. I’m fine, didn’t die, probably wasn’t even concussed, but it hurt like a bastard. I spent the next few days convalescing, and we came to the decision that I will be in charge of closing the trunk forevermore.
Late last night, Gentleman Caller was getting a beer out of the fridge when he glanced out the window and saw someone rifling through my car. We ran downstairs, but he was already gone along with my GPS, some cash, and my CDs. The car was unlocked, so he didn’t break a window (thankfully), but I’m left with a lot of questions: Would he have broken my window if the car hadn’t been unlocked, or was this guy just walking around the neighborhood trying door handles until he found one open? What drew him to my boring, unappealing Chevy Malibu in the first place? Why would he take almost all my CDs, but leave Madonna, and my Yakoff Smirnoff book? Who in the world takes CDs anymore? Why in the world do I still have that Yakoff Smirnoff book?
Now my car looks different to me. Even though he didn’t really take anything that mattered too much, he left me with an uneasiness that I really don’t care for. I keep looking out the window at my car expecting to see him in there looting, I expect it to smell different, and I expect to find something else missing that I really did want. We tried to arrange a sting operation by finding someone on Craigslist selling the same brand GPS that was stolen, but the person didn’t write back.
I’m taking to the woods this weekend with Jewish Friend to soak up the nature, smell of hippies, and knowledge of Washington Irving. Let’s hope I don’t get mauled by a bear.