The Joining of the Two

It really was rather graceful in its stupidity; an act in two cars. Gas station parking lots aren't usually the expected stage of high drama, but there are exceptions to every rule.

The first participant was a car, bright red, a Porsche or a Taurus, I'm not really sure which; all cars look the same to me. The second was a pickup truck, old, decrepit, the color that I suppose a tan M & M would be if sucked on for an hour or two.

There was a perverse fluidity to their actions: the car, backing slowly out of the parking stall. Such care! He must have just waxed it. The truck, slowly backing from the pump (it was lunch time and the lot was packed with people getting gas, going to the bank, seeking sustenance from dirty grills and deep fryers).

From the moment I saw them both start to move, I knew what the final outcome would be. It was as if for that moment my eyes were given unclouded view of the future, and I wondered if this was how Cassandra felt, before the pythons tore her apart.

It almost seemed a joke of the most perverse order, watching the car and the truck close. They seemed to move with purposed dignity. They were so far apart! One would think that at least one of the drivers would look behind him. I could have yelled a word of warning I suppose, but instead I giggled at what I knew was coming.

There is something aesthetically pleasing about a low speed crash. None of the screeching, squealing, or screaming that comes with impacts at greater velocities. They are a foot apart and then there is a crunch that comes quickly, cleanly, elegantly and there is no space between them.

The speed at which the drivers exit their cars makes it almost seems that their vehicles had vomited them out in disgust. They flew at each other, obscenities bubbling form their lips, the perfect antithesis of the graceful meeting between their vehicles.

From where I sit, I can't help myself. I fold over my steering wheel, laughing, my keys dangling unused from my fingers.