A Day to Remember

Tuesday, November 2, 1998

6:00 a.m.

It was a cold and rainy morning.  Raindrops were tap, tap, tapping against my bedroom window, and I didn't want to leave my warm, comfortable bed.  Every ten minutes the alarm clock yelled, "Get up! Get up! Get up!" and after thirty minutes of abuse, I threw back my blankets and stumbled toward the kitchen to start the coffee.

Jason was sprawled out on the sofa (he hadn't slept in his bed in three years) with his face down, mouth open, slobbering on the sofa pillow. "Get up! Get up! Get up!" I yelled, oh, about thirty-six times before he finally rolled off the couch on to the floor, where he slept for another ten minutes, slobbering on the carpet.

Jason was seventeen and a junior at Decatur High, a school he attended, much to his displeasure.  He was way too cool to ride the school bus, which was not a problem since he had three cars taking up way too much space in our driveway.  The Jimmy's transmission was broken, so his ride to school would be either the vintage Mustang with bald tires or the old Oldsmobile that wasn't nearly as sexy as the Mustang.

7:15 a.m.

I didn't see the car.  It was behind a bush that blocked my view of Mills Road.  I pulled out and there it was.  I braked as soon as I saw him, but it was too late.  After slamming into the front left side of my Honda Civic, his car careened off the road and hit a tree.  He wasn't hurt, he said, but blood was running down his face.  "Superficial cut," he said.  Was I okay?  he wanted to know.  I was, I said.  In 1998 I was way too cool to mention that I had peed my pants.

9:00 a.m. 

The 8:00 a.m. Color Finishing meeting that my coworker, David, and I had scheduled months before started an hour late, and midway through the presentation, the door opened and an urgent note was passed down the conference table until it reached me. "The driver of the other car involved in your accident is in the emergency room at Community Hospital. Call your insurance agent right away."

11:00 a.m

In addition to the call from my insurance agent, another urgent message was waiting for me when I returned to my desk.  It was from the principal of Decatur High.  "Is Jason getting enough sleep at night?" he wanted to know.  Jason had fallen asleep during a test and when told he had failed the class, his response was "Whatever."

2:00 p.m.

Good news!  The man injured in the accident went to the emergency room at the urging of the police, but he was fine.

6:30 p.m. 

It was a cold and rainy evening.  The Mustang's tires were slip, slip, sliding on the pavement as Jason sped toward his friend's house.  Why had I agreed to come along? What was I thinking? When we approached the stop sign at Mills and High School Road, Jason made the decision to not stop. "Why should I stop?" he said. "There are no cars coming." Instead, he took the 90-degree left turn with his foot on the accelerator.  The car spun around 360 degrees; then it stopped in the direction of Jason's friend's house.  He smiled, "I meant to do that," he said. As his mother and the boss of him, I did what most mothers would do in this situation.  I screamed.  Then I admonished him for his lack of good sense. He laughed, turned up the radio, and tuned me out.  I was just white noise blah, blah, blahing in the passenger seat.

10:30 p.m.

It was a cold and rainy night.  Raindrops were tap, tap, tapping against my bedroom window, and I had just turned off the light and slipped under the blankets.

BAMMMM!   (The sound of my bedroom door slamming against the wall as it opened.)

Jason was standing in the doorway. He was wet and shaking and as white as snow.  "There's been a terrible accident, Mom!" he said.

10:31 p.m.

We were in the not-so-cool Oldsmobile driving toward the terrible accident, six blocks from our house.  I didn't know where to start with the questions.  I thought he was in sofa.  Why did he leave? Where did he go? Who was he with? What happened?  Was anyone hurt? Jason and his friend had decided to go for a little spin in his Mustang, he said. He was going 60 in a 30 mph speed zone when he crested a hill, lost traction and went airborne. After hitting a mailbox, the Mustang left the road and traveled some distance before being stopped by a tree. The impact knocked the tree across the road, and now Mills Road was impassable. Next, he did what many teenagers whose brains are not fully developed would do.  He and his friend left the scene of the accident, and they both ran home.

10:33 p.m.

As we approached the accident scene, there were cars lined up in both directions. One lone policeman was holding a flashlight, peering inside the now-totaled Mustang. "Where's the driver of this car?" the man wanted to know. Jason jumped out of the car and ran behind the crowd of people who were standing in the road, gawking.  He worked his way through the people and said, "I'm the driver, Sir." What happened next is unbelievable.

10:50 p.m.

A police car with flashing blue lights sat idling at the end of our driveway. A short, rotund man with a demeanor similar to good-ole-boy Barney Fife was standing in my garage pulling the starter cord on my chainsaw, but it was slow to start. "They always play hard to get." He laughed like Barney. "But she doesn't know who's she's dealin' with; she'll start."

Just minutes earlier, I was standing in the rain next to a demolished Mustang in my dripping wet pajamas, wondering if they put seventeen-year-olds in jail or juvenile detention.  Shortly after Jason had approached Officer Fife, the only policeman at the accident, I did what many mothers would do in a situation like this.  I inserted myself between my son and the consequences of his not-fully-developed brain. "I'm Jason's mother, Officer." I said. "Is there anything I can do to help?" "What I need right now, ma'am," he said, "is a chainsaw to get this dang tree off the road."

Chainsaw?  Really?  I had one of those, I told him.  So off to my garage we raced, and he was right.  She did start.  With blue lights flashing and sirens screaming, we were back at the tree in minutes.  The line of cars was longer.  The crowd bigger.  Jason, along with his friend and his friend's mother, were standing next to the Mustang, right where he was told to wait.  What was going to happen when Officer Fife returned? he wondered.  Would he be arrested?  Would he go to jail?  What would the consequences of his reckless behavior be?

12:00 a.m.

It was a cold and rainy morning.  Those damn raindrops were still tap, tap, tapping against my bedroom window. Jason sat on the edge of my bed, contrite, remorseful, apologetic.  Neither of us were able to sleep. It had been a day to remember.

After Officer Fife had removed the tree from the road and the cars and people were gone, he drove me home.  He felt that Jason's punishment should only be the loss of his beloved Mustang. He would write an accident report and the consequences suffered would be nothing more than increased insurance rates.  Case closed.

So did seventeen-year-old Jason learn anything from this brief brush with the law?  Nah!