The First Accident

Do you ever wake up in the morning and know immediately that the day ahead is going to be life-changing? And it doesn’t count if you’re going for a sex change or chemotherapy.

I’ve always believed that life is a succession of unpredictability, opportunity and domestic violence if you’re really unlucky. Or maybe it’s just a canvas of premeditated sequences by God and it is being permeated through time and consequence.

I’ve been driving for 11 years – well, minus the 1 odd year that I wasn’t allowed to – and that’s a lot of mileage and more time on the road collectively than people would have spent at McDonald’s for two life times.

And it’s been a good accident free record to boast if you really get me started, because I think I am generally an awesome driver. If Batman ever needed a chauffeur for his Bat-Mobil, it would have been me.

Then Friday came and changed everything. And the worst part of it was, that I wasn’t even driving to begin with.

This was how it all transpired from my perspective, because there is always only one point of view to anything, and that is my point of view.

There I was, sitting in the car, dutifully tearing up my parking coupons because the vigilance and diligence of these attendants these days is just nothing short of amazing. Their work-rate will put the most industrious sheep dog to shame.

Next thing I know, I feel – or hear, either of which don’t really matter at this point in time – something hit the side of my car. I look up to see a horrific sight of a Mercedes grazing the front right corner of my car.

I can’t say I was livid about the whole 2 second of reality and stupidity of the other person that was unfolding before me, because my initial reflex was of disbelief and followed shortly by a string of expletives that imploded within my train of thought.

I immediately honked at him, got out the car and then made a call to Roti Prata.

Me: “Grab a pen and paper for me. I’m at the back of the office. Some fucker just hit my car.”

The driver then got out looking terribly remorseful, but it was a guy so there wasn’t cleavage, good looks or short skirts in his favour that could have potentially mitigated the whole situation.

He: “So sorry, I was trying to give way to the bus.”

So he was trying to be a good road Samaritan and he sacrificed my car instead? Oh my, where is Sharity Elephant to give him his road courtesy award at a time like this?

Me: “Just give me your particulars..”

This is my first accident, but I won’t say I’m a total novice when it comes to procedures because I have been in enough accidents with LB to know what needs to done and how to go about doing it.

So I copied down his particulars and made him sign a written statement about hitting me. I gave him my contact so that he could arrange for my car to be patched up and took his. Then I left, but not without murmuring a hex under my breath first just because it’s cool to be a wizard these days.

When I got in, I announced the breaking of my accident virginity and then convinced everyone that buying my license plate number for the weekend 4D draw was the best financial investment since buying Citibank shares.

Then I decided to call him. Yes, I didn’t verify his number on the spot. No one is perfect, except for Megan Fox.

Me: “Is this Ithnin?”
Guy: “Wrong number.” [hangs up my call]

In panic, I immediately ran to the back to see if his car was still around. It wasn’t, but I’m sure you saw this coming.

Me: “Muthafucking chee bye! I’m calling the cops!”

So I dialed 999 for the first time, something I wished I never had to do in my life.

Cop: “Hi sir, how can I help you?”
Me: “I would like to report a hit and run.”

Cop: “Was anyone injured?”
Me: “No, but my car is damaged.”

Then, I was asked to narrate the whole incident over again.

Me: “Some muthafucker, hit me on the side of my car and fucking gave me a fake contact number…”

Cop: “Sir, I will have to ask you to mind your language.”
Me: “…. Sorry.”

This was the hardest story I had to tell because here I was, fuming mad for being given a wrong number, or maybe he was pretending to another person, and I couldn’t use profanities as an expression for my wrath. It was like making R Kelly sit at a playground with Viagra and a leash.

Cop: “So sir, why did you report this as a hit and run?”

Me: “Because the fuc.., the man hit me and he ran away. Well, technically he didn’t but, he did give me a fake contact.”

Cop: “Sir, just for your info, this is not a hit and run. I will continue to file a report for you, but I suggest you make an insurance claim instead.”

I called the insurance company and they told me to send the car in to the workshop and to come in to make the report at the same time. So I drove all the way down to Sin Min, still pissed with the whole morning and wondering if legally, I can have him shot by a firing squad for this.

Once there, I recounted my story all over again for the umpteenth time to the guy and he told me drive my car over for him to assess the damage. And I did, but when I stepped out of it, he looked at me seemingly perplexed by it.

CarGuy: “Just like that only?”

He asked, pointing to the damage and humiliating my car had gone through.

Me: “Yup. Is there a problem?”

CarGuy: “Yes, big problem. You can’t claim for damages under $1000. You really need to try and settle it with the guy instead.”

Me: “I made a police report anyway.”

CarGuy: “Why did you make a report?”

Why would I not? If someone stole a cookie from you, the least you could do is to run after them with a shotgun.

Well apparently, the police doesn’t really give a shit about petty traffic accidents that can be resolved between the parties involved. Or neither will they bother to even direct any resources to helping you because deploying speed cameras and road blocks are much better revenue generators.

Then in the midst of me checking what should I do at the moment, I received a call from a rather familiar number. Then I heard his voice, the same monotonous tone that will bore the shit out of Newater, but it lit up my day like fireworks on a desert night.

Me: “Why did you give me a wrong number?”

He: “No no, this is my number. I didn’t give you wrong number.”

Me: “I am staring at the contact number you wrote for me. It says, you gave me the wrong number.”

He: “Okay sorry. I will send you the address to send your car to. I hope we can settle it quickly.”

Best thing I heard all day. If my pants weren’t so tight, I might have had an erection.