An Unfortunate Event

Before I left Joshua Tree, I ran into a different kind of guy.  More precisely, he ran into me.  I was stopped at a traffic signal when someone hit me from behind.  I had just enough time to think, "Hell, he must not have seen how far out my motorcycle rack extends since the motorcycle isn't on it," when he hit me again.  Hard.  Before I could get to the ground, he hit me a third time.  HARD.

I walked back to see what was going on and the other driver jumped out of his car, an old beat-up van. He was a grizzled prospector type, missing only the burro (and a number of teeth.)  He marched up to me, stuck out his hand, and brayed, "Hi!  My name's Peter!  I'm glad to meet you!"

I said, "Peter, you just hit my vehicle three times.  What's up with that?"

He glanced down at his grille, splayed across my steel rack, and said, "Hell, it was like that before!  Don't worry about it!"  Very cheerful.

While thinking about my response, I looked down and realized--he has no front tire!  He is driving on the rim!  But before I could say anything, two guys rushed up and said, "Don't let him get away again! He hit both of our cars! We've been trying to stop him for miles!"  Then a guy describing himself as an off duty cop started asking Peter questions, like, "How long have you been driving on the rim of your van?"  "Since Twenty-Nine Palms," said Peter.  Everyone is impressed; that's 21 miles away.  Now another guy comes up--"He hit my car six miles back!"  Then a guy in a jeep--"He hit me too!"

The cops start arriving, sirens wailing.  Highway Patrol.  Another Highway Patrol.  ANOTHER Highway Patrol.  Two County Sheriff cars.  A fire engine.  And another guy who said he got hit.

Now it's getting busy.  Nobody's in charge.   "Who's driving the motor home?" shouts one of the Sheriffs.  "I am."  A Highway Patrol guy says to the Jeep driver: "Are you driving the motor home?"  "No, I'm driving the Jeep."  "Which vehicle is yours?"  "I'm driving the motor home."  The firemen keep asking everyone, "Are you hurt?  Anybody here hurt?" And everybody's shouting, "He hit my car (three miles back, six miles back, eight miles back)!"  All the damaged cars, the five police cars with their lights flashing, the fire engine, and the motor home, are sitting out in the highway with all their occupants shouting and gesticulating, and Peter's   there with his scrunched up face trying to pretend everything is alright.  The off duty cop tries to explain to everyone that he's on top of it.  I expect Jerry Lewis to drive by and run over a cop's hat.

                                                 



Finally one of the Highway Patrol guys starts herding everyone off the highway into a Reilly Auto Parts store parking lot.  Now things are calming down.  A lady pulls up in a black Buick and says to a Sheriff, "Hey, this guy hit my car!"  He looks at her in exasperation and says, "Get in line, lady."

They divide things up.  There are three Sheriffs now, so they start taking license and registration info and photographing the damage.  They promise to call us to tell us how to get the report.  Meanwhile, all the victims are becoming friends.  I'm thinking we're all going to end up going out to dinner together so we can keep talking about it, but it doesn't go that far.  The lady in the black Buick keeps hunting for me in the crowd.  "Are you from around here?"  "No."  "I live here.  It's really a nice town."  "I'm sure it is."  "We're not all like him!"  "No, I'm sure you're not."

Judging from the spectators, half the town is on disability.  I haven't seen so many people on crutches and walking with obvious difficulty anywhere except for the disaster preparedness event back home.  I'm afraid there ARE more people like Peter and this is the result.  Meanwhile, Peter is getting a going over by the Highway Patrol off in a secluded corner.  We don't get the results but we are suspicious.

Now that things are winding down I see that my rack actually was damaged. The bolts keeping it stable have been bent and the lighting system wrecked.  I can't get the rack off but I'm afraid it will fall off while I'm driving; I don't know what to do.  I borrow a hammer from the Reilly Auto Parts guy.  He doesn't even look up; this is old hat to him.  The hammer doesn't do any good.

The helpful lady in the black Buick is still following me around and says, "You can take that to the tire store.  They can fix it.  It's right down this street.  Wait--I have a receipt from them!"  She rummages through her glove compartment and pulls out one receipt after another: "No, that's not it.  That's not it.  THAT'S not it."  Finally she finds it.  The address is...next door.  "Yes, I knew it was right around here."

The kid at the tire store is great.  He pulls off the rack, cuts off the bent bolts; I give the boss twenty bucks.  She hands it to the kid.  "Good man, there," I say.  "You should keep him."  She says, with a straight face, "He's an indentured servant.  He's not going anywhere."  The kid puts his head down and shuffles back to work.  They're all kidding.  I think.

I stop at Country Cook'n at the corner, because I'm famished.  It's got cowboy boots outside, saddles, etc.  The lady sitting in a chair reading the paper behind the counter is a middle aged Chinese woman with a heavy accent; the cook, a Chinese man peering out at me, is apparently her husband.  No one else is inside. 

  

They make me a perfect breakfast.  I'm back on the road.

NEXT--THE ZAKARINS AND THE L.A. EXPERIENCE