I Think I Lost My Glasses
In the midst of all the mayhem and chaos, I realized I’d lost my glasses. It was an odd moment to think about something so minor, what with the woman screaming in the background, the emergency vehicle lights flashing like obscene holiday decorations, and the cop barking orders for me to fill out the accident report. It was then that I’d realized that I lost my glasses. Silly, huh?
Just about 10 minutes before this delightful moment, I was driving with my son after having picked him up from his mother’s house, and we were talking about going to the driving range the next day. It was a warm September evening; the Sunday night before Labor day. Why golf? Just about a month earlier, some co-workers, and dare I say “buddies”, had asked me to join them at the driving range after work. I use the term “buddies” loosely because they were “moment buddies”: the moment they stopped being my co-workers, they stopped being buddies. Got it? Jolly old friends and all, keep in touch, good luck, say hi to Martha and the kids, break a leg. Poof. Who was the guy that sat there last year? Anyway, these buddies had talked me into going. I despised golf, but they convinced me that we would have a few laughs, and mock each other about how poorly we’d just hit the unsuspecting little golf ball.
So I went. I picked up a club for the first time since my chubby little fingers had wrapped around a plastic Fisher Price golf club from the set my parents bought me when I was too young to remember how young I was. I whacked the hell out of the ball. Perfect. Since I suck at most sports, this excited me. With the irresistible force of a gambler hitting twenty-one on the first hand he’s dealt, I was hooked. Another slobbering idiot patting himself on the back for the one shot out of a hundred that doesn’t slice so bad that it comes around like a boomerang in the Australian out back, hitting a fellow golfer squarely in the back of the head.
So here I was, talking to my son about going to the driving range. The light ahead was green for us as we headed into the intersection, which had recently been re-designed to make things safer and smoother. Making things safer and smoother meant painting an inordinately large amount of lines on the pavement to direct us as to where we should be when we’re making turns, going straight, or whatever course we’re so choosing to take, up to and including some kid running a red light and smashing into us head on. But I digress. Seriously, there are more lines on the pavement in this intersection than there are on the face of an alcoholic, chain-smoking school teacher, who’s retired to Florida, and spends way too much time sitting in the sun whining to her friends about whether or not her daughter, Pansy, will be visiting this summer with her no good husband and bratty two kids. Yep, that’s a lot of lines.
But that’s not what caused the accident, or so I think. I actually have no idea what was in the mind of the other driver that night. I saw the headlights coming at me from the other way, and thought nothing of it. I had the green, so if the car was making a left, there would be no problem because they had the red. So we talked about golf, right up until she smashed into me, head on. All I remember is talking golf, headlights, brake, boom, lots of things flying in slow motion inside the car, airbag, then quiet. Somewhere in there, I honestly remember thinking its been a nice life, but you can’t win ‘em all. Instinct took over and I tried to steer the car so the driver’s front side took the hit in order to protect my son. As it turns out, we weren’t physically hurt. Well, except for bruises from the seat belt, and friction burns on my arms from the air bags. Mentally, though, I’d be changed forever. That’s another story.
I checked my son out, he was fine, but scared shitless. So was I. I walked over to other car and all I could see was that driver was dazed and apparently in distress. I asked the passenger if they were ok, and she said, “Let’s just let the lawyers work it out.” Umm, ok. I’m not the brightest bulb in the box, but I knew that didn’t bode well. So I walked away, called 911, my fiancé, then my son’s mother.
So I’m standing there, talking to the cop, my fiance’ on one side, my ex-wife on the other, and the other driver screaming in the distance with injuries unknown, when I reached up to take off my glasses, and realized they weren’t there. I know I had them on, but they were gone.
I think I lost my glasses. We never found them.
sRS~~~
© Steven R. Smith
Just about 10 minutes before this delightful moment, I was driving with my son after having picked him up from his mother’s house, and we were talking about going to the driving range the next day. It was a warm September evening; the Sunday night before Labor day. Why golf? Just about a month earlier, some co-workers, and dare I say “buddies”, had asked me to join them at the driving range after work. I use the term “buddies” loosely because they were “moment buddies”: the moment they stopped being my co-workers, they stopped being buddies. Got it? Jolly old friends and all, keep in touch, good luck, say hi to Martha and the kids, break a leg. Poof. Who was the guy that sat there last year? Anyway, these buddies had talked me into going. I despised golf, but they convinced me that we would have a few laughs, and mock each other about how poorly we’d just hit the unsuspecting little golf ball.
So I went. I picked up a club for the first time since my chubby little fingers had wrapped around a plastic Fisher Price golf club from the set my parents bought me when I was too young to remember how young I was. I whacked the hell out of the ball. Perfect. Since I suck at most sports, this excited me. With the irresistible force of a gambler hitting twenty-one on the first hand he’s dealt, I was hooked. Another slobbering idiot patting himself on the back for the one shot out of a hundred that doesn’t slice so bad that it comes around like a boomerang in the Australian out back, hitting a fellow golfer squarely in the back of the head.
So here I was, talking to my son about going to the driving range. The light ahead was green for us as we headed into the intersection, which had recently been re-designed to make things safer and smoother. Making things safer and smoother meant painting an inordinately large amount of lines on the pavement to direct us as to where we should be when we’re making turns, going straight, or whatever course we’re so choosing to take, up to and including some kid running a red light and smashing into us head on. But I digress. Seriously, there are more lines on the pavement in this intersection than there are on the face of an alcoholic, chain-smoking school teacher, who’s retired to Florida, and spends way too much time sitting in the sun whining to her friends about whether or not her daughter, Pansy, will be visiting this summer with her no good husband and bratty two kids. Yep, that’s a lot of lines.
But that’s not what caused the accident, or so I think. I actually have no idea what was in the mind of the other driver that night. I saw the headlights coming at me from the other way, and thought nothing of it. I had the green, so if the car was making a left, there would be no problem because they had the red. So we talked about golf, right up until she smashed into me, head on. All I remember is talking golf, headlights, brake, boom, lots of things flying in slow motion inside the car, airbag, then quiet. Somewhere in there, I honestly remember thinking its been a nice life, but you can’t win ‘em all. Instinct took over and I tried to steer the car so the driver’s front side took the hit in order to protect my son. As it turns out, we weren’t physically hurt. Well, except for bruises from the seat belt, and friction burns on my arms from the air bags. Mentally, though, I’d be changed forever. That’s another story.
I checked my son out, he was fine, but scared shitless. So was I. I walked over to other car and all I could see was that driver was dazed and apparently in distress. I asked the passenger if they were ok, and she said, “Let’s just let the lawyers work it out.” Umm, ok. I’m not the brightest bulb in the box, but I knew that didn’t bode well. So I walked away, called 911, my fiancé, then my son’s mother.
So I’m standing there, talking to the cop, my fiance’ on one side, my ex-wife on the other, and the other driver screaming in the distance with injuries unknown, when I reached up to take off my glasses, and realized they weren’t there. I know I had them on, but they were gone.
I think I lost my glasses. We never found them.
sRS~~~
© Steven R. Smith
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