Story a Day

I usually tell it as a ghost story. You know, like it happened to someone else. Because no one would believe me if I told them I saw it really happen.

You’ll see. You won’t believe it either.

Audrey was driving. Rob was riding shotgun, because he’s Audrey’s boyfriend. Ashley and Cal and I were in the back. We were going to a party. We were talking about who would be at the party, where we knew them from, how long we would stay.

Just past the cemetery, someone in a huge SUV T-boned us. We didn’t have a stop sign, and they did, and they just plowed right through it. The crash was loud. We were scared. We were just in a little Acura. We spun around at least one-eighty. The SUV had hit us just in front of the front passenger seat. The front of Audrey’s Acura was crumpled. We all got out and checked ourselves for contusions. Rob had a bruise on his forehead—the impact had been closest to him—but really we all seemed okay.

After we had shaken ourselves out, we realized the SUV had left.

“Son of a bitch!” said Audrey. Now she had no one to pay to fix her car. We hadn’t gotten a license plate number. Hell, none of us had even noticed the make or model.

Audrey dialed 9-1-1. Ashley and Cal were huddled together on the curb. Rob paced in the dark, deserted street, safety glass twinkling around his feet. I sat on the hood of the car and listened to Audrey’s phone call.

“Yes. Police…. Yes. I was in a hit-and-run, they destroyed my car. No, I didn’t get the license number. It’s only been a couple minutes. No, I didn’t get the make and model. Okay, that would be great. Thank you. We’re on the corner of—shit. Where are we? Where the hell are we?“

“Twenty-sixth and Morrison,” I told her.

“Twenty-sixth and Morrison. Okay. Thank you.” Audrey hung up her phone. “Son of a bitch! Fuck!” She paced around in the street with one hand on the back of her head. Read the rest of this entry »