The People in That Car Must Be Dead — Max Robins

The People in That Car Must Be Dead

Max Robins

There’s a moment when your heart sinks before the drop of a roller coaster. As the heart retreats to this refuge you brace for what comes next. You prepare. Roller coasters are fun—you know what happens next. Boom, drop: fun. Your heart resurfaces. The ride continues. Sometimes you don’t know what happens next. My heart doesn’t sink when Jackie’s ’78 Chevy Impala careens down the hill and into the utility pole. Sometimes the heart’s not given a chance to retreat.

Raindrops fall steadily onto the pavement. Their individuality is lost as they pitter and patter into a massive wet expanse. The crystal shards of windshield and headlight exploding off the car don’t fall as gently. They litter the ground unevenly. Sharp angles cut the flickering light into a million strobing pieces.

I’m the first to stumble out of the vehicle’s chassis. A mangled carcass isn’t really an animal anymore. And this was no longer a sedan. Steaming metal from engine to exhaust fused with contorted lamppost. The deformed “car” wrapped around the pole so perfectly you’d think they were purposefully forged together.

Jackie staggers from the car. He got the brunt of the blow. Hailey and I are frazzled, but not broken. A bit bloodied, but miraculously unscathed. Death didn’t even look the other way tonight—he fell asleep on the job. Hailey yells at Jackie and Jackie yells back. My body can’t make a decision whether or not to be buzzed anymore. My sobriety flickers with the lights as I pick up pieces of their argument. She asks if he’s alright, but doesn’t let him finish. He tries to explain what happened. She won’t listen. He says the accelerator gets stuck sometimes. He tells her he knew all along. It didn’t occur to him that this could be a problem. She asks him how it couldn’t occur to him. She asks if it occurred to him that a jammed accelerator and a soaking wet night and the steepest hill on the island and an idiothigh-off-his-ass driver made for a bad combination. He shrugs. She yells some more.

I can’t tell if it’s the near-death experience at twenty-two or the slight concussion, but I laugh. I’m hysterical. Tears of fear and twisted hilarity intermingle as cheap mascara runs down my face. It all happened so quickly. They say everything slows down. They lied. Or maybe they just didn’t know what they’re talking about. I guess it all slows down if you do die. Slowed to a dead halt. Funny: they never got a chance to warn us.

I drive my unknowing mom by the amalgam of lamppost and car the next day. Some of the glass is swept away. Some remains. She says that the people in that car must be dead. I say maybe. Maybe not.