The Rear-Ending That Wasn't

I rear-ended a girl for the first time today, though not in the normally good sense of that phrase.

            I sat waiting at a red light on Santa Monica Boulevard, headed East towards Rosewood.  The light turns green, people start moving forward, everything's going normally.  I notice a Star Tours bus coming the opposite direction, fully-loaded.  I decide to remove my hat and wave it out the sunroof at them.  When I look back down in front of me, there's a car, almost stopped, not twenty feet ahead.  I stab the brakes, they lock up and I skid, but it's too late: I can tell I'm going to hit her five feet before it happens.

            It was only a gentle crunch.  We both pull over.  The worst part isn't that my flawless record's got a wart, the worst part isn't that the front of my car's a little bit fucked, the worst part isn't that it's going to be a long time until I can afford to repair the car, or even that my insurance rate will rise.  The worst part is that there's no way I can deny – to myself, that is; I'll obviously never admit it to insurance or anyone else – that this was entirely the product of me being a complete dumbass.  By choosing to give some idiots on a bus a show they'd forget anyhow, I delayed myself and the driver of the other car by some twenty minutes and caused myself what I'm sure will be a great expense.

            That having been said, there are more upsides than downsides.  I was in my S-Klasse and she was in a new Audi.  It was pure German-on-German, so hardly anything happened to either vehicle.  My grille, which is mostly plastic, got bent but my bumper's fine.  Her bumper somehow looks miraculously untouched, save for some light scratching.  I had expected it to be totally crumpled.

            This girl who was driving was cute in a cold, Scandinavian way.  Icy eyes, pure blonde hair, and a pretty rack.  I could tell by the rest of her – thin, far too thin for my taste – that the airbags weren't factory standard.  We both call our insurers.  After a while on the 'phone, during which I'd been looking the other direction, I turn back towards her car and notice some other, to be honest quite more attractive girl had suddenly appeared.  Evidently, she had a passenger that I'd not noticed at all before.  The driver – Nicole – had what you might call the ultimate blonde hair, but the passenger had what can only be described as golden hair.  She was even lovelier.

            Perhaps it's simply because it wasn't her car, but the passenger had a warm, completely natural smile.  She also had tits that readily outclassed Nicole's.  That's not to say hers were bigger – though they were slightly – but by god was she perfectly suited to them and vis-versa.  They looked natural, too, no sense of stiffness.  It's an open secret that I love big bolt-ons, but there's an unrivaled hypnotic majesty to the fluidity of god-given boobs in motion.  If I went to Central Casting looking for a believably though uncommonly attractive Beverly Hills girlfriend, they'd have given me this girl.

            If all goes well, and I expect it to, I'll have my Cadillac back in a week or two.  Perfect timing.  God bless that Mercedes, but it has got more issues than I can afford to deal with right now.  As a Benz brother once said to me at the golf course – he'd owned a diesel too – "Wonderful car; everything’ll break but the engine."  I've been learning that is the truth.  Door handles, window motors, locking system and other vacuum leaks, it all goes to hell and shipping parts across the pond ain't cheap.  But those five cylinders will crank until long after the last man breathes his final breath.  This thing was respectable with rough edges before, but after this crash it's looking trashy.

"I WANT MY CADDY!"

                      -Woody Harrelson

            I must have lied earlier when I said that the worst part was how this collision was my fault.  The worst part is that I'm not fucking both of those girls right now.  Particularly the passenger.
            It'd be great to have accidentally, moronically hit Nicole's car and then hit it off with her friend and us have this fun night while she's still stewing about minor cosmetic damage to the bumper of her A4.  But that fantasy has an ever-so-mildly cruel, vindictive touch.

            No, something better might go like so: Nicole is discombobulated by the unexpected alteration of her otherwise uneventful afternoon, but she handles herself well – she asked me after several minutes on the wire with her insurer, “Want to call your insurance company too?" at which point I realized that's what I should've been doing all along; this was my first time at this particular rodeo (something I made sure to tell my AAA agent, verbatim) – while her friend is surprised but laughing *with* the universe and *at* Nicole & I.  Meanwhile I appear to the passenger as a suave-yet-perverse stranger, rather than the milquetoast inconvenience I'm sure I ended up being in reality.  I would hit it off with the passenger, the effect of which is doubled to Nicole since she's surely thinking I’m [il]legally retarded for banging her car.  The fact that she drives a current-model-year sportscar & I hit her with a junky yet somehow miraculously operational black luxury car with black seats and black windows while wearing dickshit shades and a sheriff's hat says to her that while I've clearly yet to find my place on some sliding scale – maybe that of money vs. taste, though more likely that of 'trying to be cool' vs. 'actually being cool' – I evidently somehow know what the hell I'm doing enough to afford to be driving through Beverly Hills in the middle of the afternoon in a Mercedes, even if the driver door handle's broken and the brake pads are worn to the metal and I actuate the starter with a screwdriver.

            This peculiar aspect of reality unmistakably turned her on.  When I was younger I would've been too stupid to realize that this particular aspect of my reality was eggs-actly WHAT turned her on.  I'd then suggest that we pull off Santa Monica, since the trip from the 405 to West Hollywood that'd normally take fifteen minutes damn near doubled thanks to our halving the number of open lanes.

            She was driving a new Audi through Hollywood during work hours.  She and her friend had tits granted by Santa Claus and if not God himself.  It was all predictable, but as network television and Samuel Goldwyn can both tell us, predictability is nothing to be afraid of, if anything it is something to which should be clung.  Nicole quickly realized she didn’t' want to go home to thousands of square feet and constant bickering.  A half-Olympic pool with custom underwater speakers and imported bottles of brandy wouldn't erase the banality of sleeping next to a man who barely expressed passion for signing thirty-five million dollar contracts, let alone coming home to a gorgeous naked blonde woman backstroking in his half-Olympic pool.

            Many hours, bottles, and positions later, Nicole and her passenger sat splayed on my wall-to-wall rugs.  Well, my common-law aunt's wall-to-wall rugs.  My name wasn't on this place's title, I just lived here.  They were juicy and so was I.  At least girl-juice was clear; grease wasn't: you should've seen this place before I rented a professional-grade rug-cleaner.  Gross.  The girls smelled good.  Five years of sloppily transported Filipino food didn't.  God Bless You Rug Doctor.

            It wasn't the best.  It sure wasn't the worst.  Maybe there's some personal bias, but those Scandinavians know what they are doing.  Must be in our genes.   Nicole and her passenger and I were nothing special, we were just another set of people in the thrashing confluence of humanity, which while incomprehensible at large can be at least marginally understood by focusing the glass on Los Angeles.