Crash course

Here’s a big dose of maudlin for you: I’m going to die in a car someday.

Full disclosure compels me to confirm that, no, I am not Nostradamus, nor do I have the kind of chilling visions that would make me a character in a bland network primetime drama. If I can avoid automotive catastrophe (and if the world doesn’t blow up soon), I’d like to see old age, and die peacefully in a bed clutching a Batman pillow. Doesn’t seem like much to ask.

What fills me with dread is my history of absurd car accidents. Four times the car I’ve been driving has been totaled -- and I’m using the passive voice because, it’s worth noting, I was responsible for only one of those crashes. And it was stupid. I was inching forward at a stoplight, my foot missed the brake, and I love-tapped the SUV in front of me, leaving the occupants unharmed but totaling my crummy Hyundai because Hyundais are tin cans. I would have been safer driving one of the bumper cars from Funtown.

The other three times, disaster found me. I’m a bit of a wreck magnet.

If you’ve been in one, you know what a sickening feeling it is. A typical car accident unfolds in stages, each more stomach-churning than the last. In many instances, Stage 1 occurs before the collision even takes place; as two cars vector toward each other, the reality of what’s about to happen starts to sink in, and you watch the events unfold in a kind of dreamlike stupor, not unlike the soupy state of consciousness that follows waking up in the night to pee. Human brains are marvels of split-second scenario planning, and they start flipping through possible outcomes -- He’ll miss me at the last second! He’ll clip me, it won’t be that bad! The rapture will come and I’ll just disappear! -- before whammo, your rear bumper is toast and one of your wheels is barreling down the road toward a Burger King.

Even after the crash happens there’s a brief moment of denial. You check yourself for injuries, find none, and then a part of your brain starts whispering, “Hey, you imagined the whole thing. Bad daydream, that’s all. If you keep driving you can still make the 7 o’clock showing of ‘Spider-Man.’” Then you exit the car and survey the damage, and it looks like the giant from Jack and the Beanstalk fame was just playing soccer with your sedan. Reality asserts itself at this point, and depending on your personality you may have a brief flash to something comforting. A favorite blankie from when you were 4, perhaps. That’s when a bunch of annoying adult stuff ensues.

Making sure people are OK is the number one priority, of course. Injury is the one thing that can make this awful situation exponentially worse. Let’s say you lucked out and everybody’s fine, no sprains, no broken bones, no limbs corkscrewed around the rosary dangling from the rearview mirror. At this point, thoughts turn to the exchange of insurance information, and as soon as that happens it is completely appropriate to freak out and start weeping like a toddler with a skinned knee. Most people will tell you it’s best to remain calm, keep a level head. But you know what? You just survived the impact of two 3,000 lb. hunks of metal and plastic. This is one of those life moments when a small tantrum should be considered acceptable. Other such moments include the death of a loved one and watching your first Pauly Shore movie.

If it’s a fender-bender, you can drive on home and stew privately, hoping your insurance covers repairs to the butt-shaped dent on your passenger side door. In a total wreck situation, you’re stuck with the added indignity of having to grab a ride, all while your beloved Honda is towed to its grave by some bearded dude named Russ. During my latest brush with car-destroying misfortune, I had to borrow my mother’s car -- try feeling like a man doing that -- and simultaneously juggle car shopping and insurance company stuff. It made me pine for the simple days of horse-and-buggy transportation: Your wooden wheel broke, you replaced it. Your horse died or got sick, you stole one from an evil whiskey-swilling desperado. You even got a nice protein-packed meal in the bargain.

Cars, for all their promise of freedom and adventure, can be a massive headache. Not often, and not usually to an unreasonable degree. But sometimes. A lot of this is due to user error --  certainly I was a tool for missing the brake entirely, and in the three accidents in which I was a victim, “error” is the mildest word to describe what happened. Every once in awhile, something happens to remind you of just how unnatural an automobile actually is. They’re massive piles of heavy materials traveling at speeds that can’t be attained by the fastest of animals, not even a cheetah who’s high on angel dust. Bad things are bound to happen, and frequently do.

Given my uncanny ability to be in the wrong place at the wrong time (with the wrong foot), it’s reasonable to surmise that one of these accidents will be the Big One. It’s disappointing realizing that my likelihood of dying in a crash is higher than, say, dying honorably while defending the city from a band of evil ninjas. At least the latter would make me a legend, or at the very least make for an epic obituary.

But at least there’s good news on the horizon: Google is trying to perfect its driverless cars, and if they’re as safe as they say, I may live to an old age yet. That means I’ll need a Batman pillow, and I’m thinking it’s safer to just order one on Amazon; the less time I spend on the road, the better.