The Fire Ant, my beloved 1991 Plymouth Sundance, found its final resting place on Sunday, after crashing headlong into a stopped vehicle on the freeway. Or, more simply, I got distracted while driving, didn't see that traffic had come to a sudden standstill, and, going 65, I rear ended the car in front of me. The airbag deployed, the front was transformed into an accordion, fluids flowed freely onto the cement, and, hysterically crying, I extracted myself slowly from the whole mess.
Despite the horrible mess of it all, however, I continue to find silver linings: the car I hit was not damaged nearly as badly as mine was; the driver and passenger (both young women about my age) were unscathed and not angry; only two vehicles were involved; I learned interesting (unpublishable) information about the workings of the California Highway Patrol. And now I get to find out how possible it is to survive in Los Angeles with no money, no car, and a job that is 40 miles away from home. Starting tomorrow, I will become a maven of public transit. My commute will be longer than my shifts at work. At the moment, though, this is my only option and so, until some new opportunity presents itself, I will have lots of time for reading and writing and thinking as I sit for hours on buses and trains. Actually, this may not be a bad arrangement. Mandatory time for contemplation. I'm almost jealous of myself.
I can't say that I am looking forward to this next adventure, but I am not dreading it, either. If nothing else, my experiences as a penniless, carless, Los Angeleno will provide many entertaining stories.
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