In a 5 second interval of time, my life took a turn from tedious and predictable to chaotic and disastrous. You be the judge of whether or not this can be portrayed as a positive step. On my way to my car, I paused to look at myself in the mirror of a brand new, pearly white Mercedes, setting down my full cup of orange juice above the passenger side door. I looked good. Turning to leave, I attempted to grab my cup, while simultaneously check the time. Part A was deemed successful, as my mind processed 9:26. (Already 6 minutes late for my speech) It was Part B that went south. My clumsy hand did not gain enough altitude to clear the brim, which would have allowed me to pick up the cup from the opposite side and get on with my day. Instead, my hand knocked the cup clear over, sending orange juice running over the top of the Benz, down the shimmering clean windshield, and into the small creases of the door hinges/engine hood. At this point I became virtually immobile due to shock and disbelief. I just stared and stared, hoping that any second now my roommate would nudge my shoulder, waking me up, and prove this whole catastrophic start to a day as nothing more than a bad dream. When I regained focus, It was now 9:27. I was presented with a set of options. I could walk back into the house, change my clothes, round up some towels, maybe a bucket of water, and set to cleaning up the mess. Upon restoring the vehicle to pristine condition, I could simply explain to my teacher the rollercoaster ride that had been my morning, and pray that he would bestow mercy upon my softened and fragile soul. But I have never been one to rely on a blessing from God, and the idea of me donating an abbreviated car wash to an unknown stranger (even if justified under the extenuating circumstances) was far too mature to be recognized as a serious resolution in my impish eyes. Another option aroused. I could ask around the apartment complex, in an attempt to locate the owner of the pimp mobile, explain to him what happened, and offer to reimburse him, by way of a epic new car wash and possibly a candy bar to put a smile back on his/her face. In hindsight, the first two options appear to be wholly logical and full of common sense. It’s these two adjectives alone that explain why I went a different direction with my solution. Literally. With a cursory glance to my right and to my left, I turned my back on the souvenir cup and orange juice spill, and began to speed walk to my car parked a football field’s length away. I tried to play casual, but came off about as inconspicuous as a man walking from a bank with a burlap sack with $ plastered in both sides. My eyes stayed locked on the prize, my mom’s 2002 Chevy Suburban, which seemingly becoming more and more distant with every hurried step I forced onward. After 10 hard steps, a voice from behind me sent a shockwave barreling down the back of my skull, not stopping until it rode the length of my spine and down through my feet. “Hey! What the hell are you doing?” a deep voice echoed from no further than 20 feet behind me. I couldn’t believe it. Slowly turning around I expected to see an unhappy college kid, my size, possibly a tad larger. Nothing years of rough housing with friends couldn’t take care of. Upon finishing my 90 degree rotation, what stood before me bared a slight resemblance to the Empire State building (given New York unanimously voted to have it coated with a black paint job) This, umm…. MAN, we will call him stood before me with an unhappy and threatening scowl, like that of a rabies-infected dog that just had his dinner swiped from under his muzzle. I take back what I said about the Empire State Building; he was the approximate size of a third world country. Bolivia or El Salvador. Worst even, he was certainly not a witness, or even an unbiased bystander attempting to perform a morally upstanding deed. No, he was very much involved, as I turned just in time to see the man swing his T-Rex sized feet from inside the white Mercedes Benz(the same one I had just attempted to re-decorate), and onto the paved parking lot. It was not until he was outside the car, standing straight upright that I could finally attest to the sheer mass of the man. He was not fat, not like the bouncers at a club or strip joint. Not Big Black from Rob and Big, but more like the defensive end for the Carolina Panthers Julius Peppers. That could be characterized as an exaggeration; he was not a poor man’s Julius Peppers by any means, but a middle- class, well off, yet not rich Julius Peppers. That was enough to have my bladder spiking up and down uncontrollably, and my heart just about ready to leap from my chest cavity. Suffering from word loss- possibly for the first time in my young life- I answered with the stupid and obvious, “Nothing”. For my own self esteem’s sake I would like to think that my response came out in a solid, clearly audible tone and volume, but if we had a tape recorder strapped around my waist, I imagine upon listening to it, I sounded more like a dying quail or a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. We’ll call it a whimper and give myself the benefit of the doubt. “Did you just dump this orange juice on my car? And then walk away?” his assault continued, in a snarled tone. This direct question also handcuffed me. The guy was in the car the whole goddam time, and I didn’t even catch a glimpse of him through the presidential tint. Wasn’t there some kind of ban against this type of tint? Was that not reserved for Mr. Barack Obama himself? Because let me just tell you, if I would have seen Julius Peppers in that new Mercedes, fresh off Jake’s Car lot, my cup of orange juice and I would have found a new place to lick our wounds. I learned at a young age when you’re backed in the corner, and things are looking gloom, deny, deny, deny. So I did. “Me? Absolutely not, I am just on my way to my car. I don’t even like orange juice,” I said. “The concentration freaks me out. I guess I’ll just let you know if I see him, cause that’s messed up.” He didn’t buy it, not for even a nana-second. The certainty and conviction in his booming voice could have resulted from only one thing: he 100 percent watched me do it, from beginning to end. Watched me walk up to his car with mud covering my once presentable face and outfit. Watched me check myself out in his windows. Watched me put my cup of orange juice on the top of his car( without a coaster) And worst of all, watched me dump the orange juice all over the top, sides, back, and front of his new mobile drug stand. I don’t even know for sure, but taking my previous luck into account, the juice probably penetrated his bullet proof gas tank, ruined the flow of his sooped up engine, and drastically altered his new- car smelling leather interior. With this in mind, I quickly deduced there was zero chance I could escape this dilemma armed only with words. I was guilty, and it seemed that he was bent on charging me, not financially, judging by the hardened look in his eyes. His snake eyes told me he wanted more than a car wash. Senor Peppers was out for revenge. Never before had I been so sorry. So once again I was confronted with list of options. Option 1: I could break out my wallet, fork over a 20 dollar bill to cover the car wash and any other inconveniences I had burdened him with, and go on with my day unscathed. Option 2: I could continue feeding him bull****, denying all acquisitions, until he eventually charged at me like a rhino protecting his young, at which time I would drop to my knees, and hand over my wallet along with all my dignity. Less logical, but at least it wasn’t going to land me in a funeral home. Option 3: (Possibly my stupidest idea of all time) I could make a break for it. Foolish, risky, immature, idiotic, life threatening: all adjectives that would suffice as an explanation for this option. Stop with the adjectives, you had me at foolish. Back pedaling at a skillfully subtle pace, I continued to take words straight from my hindquarter. When the gap between us finally reached a modest 15 yards, I opened the gate like a center fielder chasing down a ball onto the warning track, and bolted. I have never in my life churned my legs and pumped my arms this ferociously. Just the fear and agony of what a man of this size could do to me was enough to have me high stepping. I didn’t risk a look back, convinced those wasted seconds would stamp the envelope on my demise, as I don’t fly as swiftly as I sometimes day dream about. Not to mention I was deathly afraid at what I might find upon swiveling my head back, because to tell you the truth, even with all the adrenaline in the world flowing through my veins, turning around to see a 250 pound athlete chasing you down is a sight I would like to leave to that QB camera they sometimes show on Sunday Night Football. When I was 15 yards from my car, I clicked the Unlock mechanism on my key ring twice, yielding a courtesy honk to let me know I would not be flailing with the handle when Mr. Peppers threw me to the pavement. The door surprisingly swung open with ease, so I slipped the key into the ignition, turned it clockwise, and waited for the Whir of a V-8 engine. This whole sequence went so smoothly, almost like it was my destiny. Words like freedom and salvation surfaced in my mind. Thrusting the gear into Reverse, I slammed on the gas (a fender bender the very least of my worries) and fishtailed out of my spot.
Sitting on my bed two days later, I am a firm believer that I have officially survived the worst of it. As far as I’m concerned, I am a war survivor. I deserve a medal of honor, or a badge. I figure if he hasn’t launched his vengeance inspired assault by now; what is he waiting for? Hopefully not Christmas