Cloudy day. I get stomach problems in the morning from time to time. Maybe I should look into it. Maybe if I had health insurance since before Covid. Well something's gonna kill me. Might be an accumulation of cloudy days. I almost put on Jason Molina. But we don't want to go too far down that rabbit hole. There are things I want to accomplish today. Always forward, or so they say.
Gazing out the living room window. I see an ugly yet familiar sight - a Nissan Juke. My father had a Juke up until recently. He sunk more money into that car than what he probably should've. Kept putting band-aids on it hoping to avoid its inevitable replacement. Put a lot of miles on it through a long work commute. Eventually he hit a deer driving home. Caved in his front end, but he was fine. A blessing in disguise. The check the insurance company cut him for the vehicle was probably worth three times as much as its practical resale value. It meant I had to chauffer for a few days, late night and early morning runs, navigating a rental car situation shortly after a hailstorm which had ruined so many cars in the area. Other plans got cancelled. Important things. Things in which I was depending on him. He's a man who would bend over backwards for strangers and loose aquantainces, overly accommodating to say the least. But when it comes to those closest to him he doesn't think twice about inconveniencing them. The ties that bind, after all. The people who can't get rid of him are the people he will choose to take for granted. But that person, that place, that time, they're out of sight now. I'm here.
I think of another Nissan. Similar, but not. My father's Juke was steel blue. This Murano was cranberry red. My roommate at the time had chosen an incredibly inconsiderate time to shower - 30 minutes before I had to be at work. I was not the type of person, self-consiously nor biologically, who was comfortable with going out into public without showering. I was rushed, flustered, and very frustrated. Similar circumstances to when I had my first car accident. I was already late and looking to make up time when I backed out of the driveway into the path of opposing traffic. I shifted into gear, drove about 25 feet to the median of the divided street so that I could turn around. And this cranberry Murano T-boned me. Right in the driver side door. Right where I was sitting.
Some of the broken glass from the window drew a little blood as it sprinkled my head. My back was a little creaky for a day or two. But I didn't get whiplash thankfully. I wasn't hurt much at all, physically. But I was hurt. This bitch hit me. I was already turned nearly a full 90 degrees into the median, and she angled her car to where the very edge of her passenger side corner slammed right into me. She totaled my car with minimal cosmetic damage to her own. Because I had pulled out on her. Which meant I was technically at fault for this according to the officer on the scene. There was no recording or dash cam or witness. I took pictures for the sake of illustrating the angle and the point of impact, that she had gone out of her way to hit me. But I didn't fight. I didn't take her to court. I knew that I would be moving out of town within the next few months and I didn't want to deal with the legal process, even if I thought I could "win". I was an emotionally stunted 24 year old, melancholy and drowning in grief, and I was so discouraged by the incident and by the passive flippant malice of this woman that I buried it. Forget about it.
Except I didn't. I held onto it. It still bothers me a little. The officer on scene had us exchange insurance information, including a current address. For weeks I considered, fantasized, about paying her residence a visit deep into the middle of the night when nobody was around. It'd be easy enough to recognize that Morano. I could pull up Paranoia Agent style, on a skateboard with an aluminum softball bat. It would take less than 20 seconds of whacking for me to completely destroy that car. And I'm off. No plates, no discernable clothing, I could flee on foot through some alleyways or side streets if there was any pursuit. I wanted it. But how would I be able to deny my motive? How could I provide an alibi? Who could I find that would be willing to do this on my behalf, to get away with it, to not rat me out, and what would it cost? I held myself back, again. "Let it go" I told myself. But back then I didn't understand that there's a world of difference between not doing anything about it and actually letting it go.
I'm adjusting here. I spent so much time in my life being so uncomfortable in my own skin. Living within the shadows of myself, my genetics, my insecurities, my hopelessness, and my shame, goddamn my shame. I think it would've been a lot easier for me then, and it'd be a lot easier for me now, if I would get some of these things off my chest. I didn't bring many possessions here with me. But I brought too much baggage. It would do me good to shed some of it. But I am moving forward. I'm going to get my guitar restrung. I need to get music properly into my life, what I've denied for so long, where it's always belonged. I'm going to find a new hiking trail, a nature preserve. Maybe something that can mean as much to me as the trails back where I came from. My stomach problems almost always pass after a couple of hours. It's ok. I'm coming out of my shell, little by little. It takes time.