Two Car Crashes

I’ve been in two car accidents in my life. One happened a week after my father died; the other occurred while I was in college. Both happened in a similar way—being hit by an oncoming car as I was crossing under an overpass.

The first accident happened when I was nine, shortly after my dad’s death. A family friend, whose sons went to school with me, offered to take me to buy a suit for the funeral. I remember being on Westheimer in Houston, heading toward the Galleria. We were at the intersection with I-10, at the front of the traffic, waiting for the light to change.

I was in the car with the two boys and their mother. As we crossed the overpass, we were violently hit on the passenger side. I remember the panicked look on my friends’ mom’s face as people helped her out through the driver’s side. All of us kids were okay, just shaken and confused, but she was deeply distressed. I don’t remember anything about getting the suit, but I remember that moment vividly—a near-tragedy right after my dad’s suicide. It was another harsh reality shown to my nine-year-old self: that we can die at any time. Control is just a myth.

The second accident was similar, though I wasn’t driving defensively. I was about 20, in college, and driving from my off-campus home to campus. I was at Shepard and Greenbriar, at the intersection with Highway 59, again at the front of the traffic, in the second lane from the left. I was late.

I knew the timing of the lights. When the first overpass light turned green, the second would follow soon after. So I stayed at the front of the pack, driving my Toyota Sequoia, dipping Skoal Straight as I went.

I remember crossing the second light as it turned green, a full car length ahead of the next car beside me. I looked to my right and saw a white full-size pickup barreling toward me, and I thought, Oh, shit…

He hit me going about 50. He was trying to make the yellow, but it had already turned red. I was just trying to catch my green as quickly as possible to get to class. As he hit me, dip exploded out of my mouth. My airbags deployed. My torso jolted out of the open driver’s side window but snapped back because of my seatbelt. I remember the burnt smell of my arm hair from the airbag and my passenger mirror landing in my lap. The impact was so hard that my car skidded out of the lane and coasted into a small building at the corner. My front passenger tire was ripped clean off.

I remember the jolt, the shock of it. I got out, looked myself over, saw I was generally unhurt, and thought, “I’m a fucking rock!” To be fair, I was in a large SUV. I looked over at the other vehicle, an F-250 with a grill guard, a Binswanger Glass company truck, as the logo on the door read. I could see the driver slumped over through his open window.

I called 911, took pictures, called my mom, and called my girlfriend. Bystanders stopped, told me they saw what happened, and confirmed he ran the red. They offered to testify and gave me their numbers.

The ambulance came and took the other driver away. My mom and girlfriend arrived, hugged me, and took me to the hospital to get checked out. I was fine, but the experience was surreal. I’d almost died again. Why didn’t I? What am I really here for?