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I was driving our new Taurus home late one night many years ago from the Rosebud Café (my favorite bar in Somerville where I went each evening to smoke and drink wine and write.) It had been raining a bit. As I drove up College Avenue near Tufts, a beat-up old Datsun pulled out in front of me very slowly from a side street. I plowed into the rear section of that car, totally decimating the fender with a humunguous dent. When I inspected my own damage, I saw that my bumper had absorbed the impact; the only damage was that the left light fixture had popped out unbroken. The other fellow got out of his car.
Below is a transcription (as accurate as I can recall it) of our conversation in the wake of the accident. He, like me, was (so he told me) a teacher of some sort. As a result, the reader will notice a certain - restraint - in the exchanges which would probably have been missing had two members of the working class been involved (I call it hyper-civilized.) I have embellished the conversation with some added lines; but the essential tone is the same as it was that night.
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An Accident
Him: Well, if you will pay me right now for my damages, then we can be on our ways to our respective homes and hearths.
Me: I am curious as to why I should pay you!
Him: Because you were the one who hit me. I believe it is common knowledge that the hitter is at fault and is thus obliged to pay the so-called hittee.
Me: Well, there may be other criteria for determining who is at fault besides who hit whom.
Him: Such as? (Nice grammar, by the way!)
Me: Thank you. Such as, that I was driving on a main thoroughfare, whereas you were entering from a side street. Ergo, I had what is quaintly known as The Right Of Way.
Him: Actually, that would be true if another fact did not possibly trump your card.
Me: And what would that metaphorical fact be?
Him: Is it possible that you were driving too fast for the conditions?
Me (seriously pondering): I think that I was driving entirely appropriately for the conditions. I never speed here on College Avenue because there are often students crossing. Then, too, whenever it is raining, I try to cut my speed back by an additional ten miles per hour or so.
Him: So you don't think it possible that you bent your own rules a little bit and were speeding just a mite too much?
Me: I sincerely don't think so. Besides, all speeds are relative.
Him (yawning): Is this to be a lecture on Einstein?
Me: No, don't worry! But it seems to me that you might have pulled out a smitch too slowly from that side street there.
Him: Perhaps only because you were traveling too quickly: as you have said, all speeds are relative (do you like how I turn your own argument back on you?)
Me: No (although objectively I admire your wit!) Yes, that seems to be a tossup. However, you also cannot forget that there is a further thing to consider here vis a vis your behavior.
Him: Oh dear, not something else! This is becoming a veritable labyrinth of quid pro quos!
Me: Sorry, but yes. I hate to point this out to you when your arguments seem to be going so well, but didn't you have what is known as a Stop Sign over there?
Him: I don't know - I suppose I might have. Or not - what's the difference (as if I didn't know)?
Me: The difference is Fundamental and Profound, as you ought to know. The Stop Sign is one of the most Basic Bedrocks in the Sizable Canon called Rules Of The Road, and...
Him (interrupting): Goodness gracious, you're not going to get pedantic on me, are you? I always found that so boring in school!
Me (blushes): Sorry - I forgot myself there for a moment. I'll try not to let it happen again!
Him (relieved): Thank you. I hope you're not that way in your classroom!
Me: Of course I am! But, pedantics aside, you must admit that this Stop Sign-business throws a bit of a monkey wrench into the machinery of your argument...
Him: Ouch - now you're tossing in the metaphors! But I have a defense which must be acceptable to you.
Me: Which is...
Him: ...your own! You said that speeds are relative? Well, so are distances! It is true that I must come to a complete stop and yield to you if I have a Stop Sign. But yield to you when you are where? The Driver's Manual doesn't say; but the implication is: when you are sufficiently close. But how close is sufficiently close? For example, is a mile away 'sufficiently close'? Of course not! If you are a mile away, it would fairly be judged that I did not pull out 'in front of you' - since you are nowhere to be seen. So you can see my dilemma: How close is too close? I must estimate not only your speed but your distance as well, and do a quick speed-to-distance ratio calculation. That's not easy!
Me: Obviously not - it seems to have failed you rather spectacularly in this case!
Him: I still think it's all a matter of relatives...
Me: ...you mean like my father?
Him: Ouch - if that's a segue it's a terribly crude one!
Me: Well, it allows me to bolster my case with an example. It was my father who erred in a way similar to how you have erred (sorry - allegedly erred) tonight: he turned our 1950 Kaiser in front of an oncoming car (and on a wet road much like this.) I know this scenario too well since I was in the passenger seat.
Him: Did they hit your door? Perhaps the accident caused some brain-damage, which explains your confused mental state here!
Me (laughs): No - our car was hit in the rear fender, same as your's. But with much less dramatic effect: obviously a Kaiser could withstand such a blow much better than a tin-box such as your's!
Him: I will ignore your aspersions on my vehicle and ask: don't you defend your father - and hence me - in this case?
Me: No - I knew from the beginning that my father was in the wrong: he had turned in front of the other car with a maddeningly slow nonchalance - something of the sort you seem to have exhibited here tonight.
Him: My goodness - comparing me with your father! Should I be flattered?
Me: Hardly. He blustered about taking the other driver to court, and he talked of having me testify for him. I was terrified, because, even at the age of eight, I understood that I would either have to commit perjury, or betray my father's trust in me. Can you even begin to understand such a dilemma?
Him: No wonder you're confused! So which did you do - tell the truth, or play the Oedipal role?
Me: Neither: thankfully, there was never any trial.
Him (sighs): Too bad! But you are still trying to fight your father, and I am the latest scapegoat...
Me: Don't flatter yourself: believe me, my problems with my father are in a whole league of their own! Besides, that's not the only accident like this one that I've been involved in...
Him (looking at his watch): Gee, I'd love to hear your entire autobiography, but the evening is wearing on and my warm dry bed beckons!
Me: Don't worry, this won't take long - and it is of sociological interest.
Him (frightened): Egads, the worst!
Me (ignoring his protest): I was driving home from South Carolina in my Corvair...
Him: Speaking of tin-boxes!
Me (defensive): It was a cute little sporty runabout, loads of fun to drive! And was it my fault that it was judged to be Unsafe At Any Speed?
Him: No, it was Ralph Nader's fault - he's always been a spoiler!
Me: For once we agree on something! But on to my story: it was a cold day in January and, strangely, it was drizzling just like this. I was on Route 1, and someone pulled out of a side road in front of me very slowly, just as you did here.
Him: And was he or she as erudite as I am?
Me: If you meant to say 'troglodyte', the answer is no. There were four older black men in the car out for a Sunday drive. I hydroplaned on the wet road. You know how it feels in a movie when you see a crash about to happen, but you the viewer are left untouched? Well, I felt that way. And then my car slammed into them, my face hit the steering wheel and a huge gash opened in my lip. There was blood all over the place!
Him: Tsk tsk, not wearing a seat belt eh?
Me: Actually, I was. But in those days (it was 1966) there were no shoulder harnesses.
Him: Thank goodness you were wearing one tonight! I would hate there to be any more damage to that pretty face!
Me: Yes, well back then this even prettier (since younger) face had to be stitched up. But I was most worried about getting the insurance settled with the offenders. And then a strange thing happened: an older man took me under his wing.
Him: Egads - the plot thickens!
Me: No, it wasn't that. He apparently was eager to show me how the white folk down there in South Carolina dealt with the black folk in a so-called civilized way. It was most instructive.
Him: I hope no one was lynched.
Me: No, fortunately. He didn't even use the N-word (though I heard it a lot in town that morning) - it was much more subtle than that.
Him: I'd always assumed that the South was as subtle as a sledgehammer.
Me: So did I. But this was as subtle as the 'b' in 'subtle'. The man took me out to the black driver's house in the pine barrens. It was in reality a one-room cabin up on stilts. The inside was whitewashed and only had a few pieces of furniture - a bed, a dresser, a chair. But what I recall most vividly was a pungent smell the likes of which I've never experienced before or since.
Him: From burning pine wood?
Me: Perhaps. Anyway, my Great White Knight spoke quietly to the black fellow about, I assume, finding his insurance papers - there were never any shouts or threats. All the while I watched the black man and his wife: they were quiet and deferential and respectful. A little too respectful - I would use the words frozen in fear to describe their demeanor. In fact, I would say that this was the most effective exercise in intimidation I've ever seen, so subtle and quiet was it. And all that happened was that two white men had walked into the home of a black man and his wife.
Him: So your sympathies were most emphatically with the black couple?
Me: Yes - I felt deeply for them.
Him: Well, then, between your sympathies and the History of the Civil Rights Movement, can't you cut me a little slack here tonight?
Me: My sympathies and the Civil Rights Movement didn't stop me from wanting my cohort to succeed at getting that insurance information!
Him: Always the pragmatist eh?
Me: Most emphatically. So are you convinced of your guilt yet?
Him: Of course not!
Me: So you think we are in a stalemate here?
Him: It appears so.
Me: Maybe we need a fair, impartial arbiter...
Him: Sounds good. Whom might you have in mind as this arbiter?
Me: Well, why don't we just call the Police.
Him (suddenly agitated): No! No! Let's not be hasty here!
Me (as my interlocutor gets into his car to flee): Then, like the Monty Pythons, are we going to have to call this a Draw?
Him (yells out the window as he pulls away): No! My insurance company will be contacting your insurance company!
Me (forlornly, calling after him): But we haven't exchanged any information!
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