It took me a minute to understand what she was saying. Stalled...can automatics stall?
“We’re stalled,” she repeated, a note of panic in her voice.
“Turn off the car and start it again,” I instructed, careful to keep my voice steady. I made it this far remaining calm for Keara. I wasn’t going to freak out now.
I watched as she turned the ignition, then we listened to the engine do nothing. She stared at me with wide eyes. “Brittany, what do we do?”
I shifted into neutral from the passenger side. “Call 911, then call Chelsey.” Shifting gears had no effect—we were at a complete standstill, taking up two entire lanes, so I put us into park. Keara dialed. “Maybe I should put on my lights.” I was confused for a moment, but then I realized that she meant her hazards, not her headlights (which were on already).
“Yeah, good idea,” I replied as I scolded myself for not thinking of that. One of the most important things in this situation, and I didn’t even think of it. Without the hazards on, we might not even get the chance to talk to the 911 operator.
“What do I say to them?” Keara asked.
“Say you spun and you’re stuck on I-15.” They might want more details, I added to myself, but give them the general idea and they’ll ask for specifics. I looked back to see how long we had before someone swept us in a new direction. It was a bit difficult to see behind us—we were at such a weird angle that I didn’t know which window to look through, the back window or the passenger window behind me. I decided to stop looking. If someone was going to hit us, someone was going to hit us, and me looking wasn’t helping anyone. I focused on Keara. I focused on calm. It became a mantra. Be calm for Keara. Be calm for Keara.
The operator answered rather quickly, though to me it seemed to take forever. I listened to Keara explain our situation, and the whole time she was staring in my eyes. I held them with the most calm, assured face I could master. I think I did pretty well.
“Um...where are we?” she asked me.
I wasn’t very helpful here. I couldn’t remember much about anything right now. “I don’t know. South of Davis county?” I suggested like an idiot, a very calm idiot. If my intelligence was the deciding factor of our survival, our chances didn’t look too great at the moment.
Luckily, Keara had her wits about her. “We’re south of Davis county, just after the Legacy Highway entrance, around Farmington,” she said.
I focused on my breath, waiting for Keara’s next question, trying to anticipate her response, but it was hard. I kept seeing us spinning, seeing the expression on Keara’s face as she turned the wheel, trying to control the spastic movements of the car.
Looking back, I am surprised at my reaction to all of this. It was raining hard, and we had been hydroplaning (minorly) for the past forty minutes. I wanted Keara to stay calm since she was driving, so I’d been making light conversation and singing along to music with Keara, making sure to say her name every now and then (I’d heard that people are calmer when they hear their name). Plus, trying to act normal and carefree around her made me feel more calm—it’s so much easier for me to forget my worries when I’m trying to comfort someone else. And we both needed comforting at the moment. In Sardine Canyon, we passed a wreck so bad that the car was balancing upside down on its nose and windshield. I doubt anyone survived that wreck, and seeing it put both of us on edge.
We were about three miles from the exit to Centerville when we nearly had a similar experience. Keara had been doing so well at staying away from scary drivers and not overcorrecting when we slipped, but we had to get into the right lane to exit the highway. Apparently, changing lanes is difficult in the rain. It started as a simple slip to the west, then turned into a simple slip to the east...it seemed controllable. But then we slipped west again, then east, then west—I don’t know how many times, but each time the swerve became larger until we spun about 270˚ to the east, approaching the cement median serving as an unforgiving barrier to oncoming traffic. We were facing North on the Southbound side of the freeway when Keara turned the wheel again and we spun another 180˚ to the west.
I remember looking straight ahead, looking at the cars behind us on the freeway, the ones that might kill us. But I wasn’t really scared. I was breathing. I was focusing on the breath, like my nonfiction writing professor had told us to do. I was breathing, just experiencing the moment, realizing that I was closer to the oncoming traffic, so I might get hurt the worst, unless we spun more, which would mean Keara would get hurt the most. I started thinking of what I would do without Keara, but I didn’t like the bitter taste in my eyes as I pictured us smashed and shredded on the road. So I focused on my breathing and just observed what was happening. ” I’d always imagined myself in these types of situations, and I thought I’d be screaming, or that my life would flash before my eyes, or that I’d think of the people I love. But I wasn’t really thinking of anything. All I thought was “We’re spinning on the freeway...is Keara okay?” I was very disappointed that I was so calm and dull in a near-death experience.
Then we came to a complete stop in the two right lanes of the highway, facing the right direction (more or less), where Keara discovered that her car had stalled.
Keara gave the operator her name and phone number. I watched as several cars parked to the side of the road to help us out, and others parked behind us with their hazards on, because our hazards weren’t working. Keara hung up.
“Call Chelsey,” I reminded her. She nodded and started calling, trying to start the car again at the same time, but some helpful looking men got out of their cars and headed toward us. Keara passed the phone to me as I put shifted the car into park. I figured her car wouldn’t start up again unless it was in park, and lucky me, I think I was right, because the car started. Keara rolled down her window and started talking to the guys just as I started a conversation with Chelsey.
“Hey Chelsey, we’re going to be a little late...well, maybe a lot late for your birthday dinner because of the weather, so don’t wait for us to start eating.”
“That’s fine, we aren’t ready yet. Where are you?” she replied.
I would’ve told her, but the guy Keara was talking to had a deep loud voice, and I didn’t want Chelsey to hear him. Then she’d ask who it was, and I’d have to tell her that we spun out on I-15, and I didn’t want her to worry about us when she should be partying—we were relatively safe now, right? No need to scare her. So I just said, “Close, but traffic’s bad. See you in a bit,” and I hung up on her.
We made it safely to Chelsey’s house. Eventually, our scary story came out.
“You guys are spending the night!” Chelsey ordered. “There’s no way you’re driving back tonight.”
“Oh, thanks,” Keara replied, and I felt a rush of sanity claim my mind again. I was safe. I wasn’t getting back in the car.
But Keara apparently hadn’t finished her sentence. “But I have homework and I need to be up at the school really early tomorrow.”
If I didn’t love Keara so much, I would’ve cried and demanded that I was not going with her. She was crazy! She’d rather drive and risk her life than miss an assignment? What was wrong with her?
But I didn’t want to say anything, because I wasn’t going to let her go alone. Besides, I’d rather risk my life than tell anyone that I was afraid. So I sat through the party, like the calm idiot I was.
***
Okay, so now I want to tell everyone that I want to get my master's degree now. I have to decide what to get it in: writing and literature, graphic design, public relations, journalism, or even maybe a law degree. something. I'm trying to decide before valentine's day so that i know what graduate school application test to take and where to turn for scholarships. which reminds me, i need to do my taxes for my fafsa...
I got a calling finally! I am the ward webmaster. Yeah, that means I'm going to learn more tips and tricks on how to maintain websites rather than just creating them and destroying them.
I went to a masquerade with Keara and Chelsey (both roommates) and two of their friends. It was amazing and fun and beautiful and we're going to make it a tradition. We made our own masks, so that made the night extra special, in my opinion.
I met Keara's parrot named Sargeant, Sarge for short, and he's going to star in one of my upcoming nonfiction pieces. I will probably post it when I write it.
You know how it's snowed a couple of times this year? I hate it, even though it's not as bad as it was last year. Here's another nonfiction piece I wrote. I call it The Color of Snow.
***Fresh powder drifts lightly to the ground as I wait for the bus, staring at my feet. The flakes look so innocent and fragile, lightly attaching to the sidewalk without melting. But I know better—they aren’t innocent, and soon they won’t be fragile. They’ll melt just in time to freeze overnight, becoming the slick magicians that make my feet disappear into thin air, the traitorous sidekicks of gravity that bruise my backside.
I step on a small, untouched patch of snow in front of me to examine the intricate pattern of my footprint, but the snow turns brown and melts before I can fully appreciate my stamp on the world. I pat my foot again, this time dragging it back and forth, painting the sidewalk with lines of the nasty brown muck that seems so much more appropriate for today’s temperature.
I lift my head momentarily to examine the other people at the bus stop. Some look very serious, foreheads furrowed and mouths straight as they concentrate on some very important business that consumes their lives. Some look bored, and understandably so—patience is not a natural virtue. One girl speaks loudly into her cell phone while making large, animated gestures with her left hand as if the person on the other end of the line can see her. Two boys discuss how gross their roommate is for watching horse porn. Yeah...the world is an interesting place.
The bus arrives and I watch. The serious people make their way to the bus doors with haste, as if they fear there are only two seats left and someone pissed on one of those seats. The bored people follow at a leisurely pace, avoiding the loud, animated girl on her cell phone like oil avoids water. The two boys discussing their gross roommate must not be waiting for the bus at all, because they remain behind. I get on last, because that’s what I do sometimes.
The bus is warm, a comforting fact since I only wore two coats, a hat, a scarf, and gloves today. Regardless of the reviving heat, I still feel awkward on the bus. I’m never quite sure where to look once I sit down. Do I look ahead at the person across the aisle from me, or should I pretend that I’m texting someone so that I don’t have to meet anyone’s eyes? I settle for reading the ads above the seats, the ones I’ve practically memorized.
Getting off the bus is a scary prospect for me. Going down the steps can be treacherous, and stepping onto an ice-covered sidewalk is an entirely different ordeal. I grab the railing and count the steps. One, two, three steps and...sidewalk. I realize that the sidewalk isn’t as slippery as I expected, and I let out a deep sigh of relief, watching my breath dance with the air in front of me.
Walks in the winter are definitely not my favorite thing in the world. It seems to take longer to get home when it’s cold outside. The worst part of walking home is the stoplights, because I have to just stand there and wait while the snow piles on my shoulders and wiggles its way into my bones. Today as I cross the street, I notice that there are some rather impatient drivers in the world. One driver needs to turn right, but I’m in his way, which he makes obvious by riding my heels. He might as well roll down his window and shout, “Get out of my way, stupid girl.” I can understand why he doesn’t do this though—it’s far too cold to roll down the window. Another man turning left lets me know that I’m in his way, too. I’m just so glad that my presence is enhancing people’s lives today.
I finally get into my apartment and shed—coats, hat, scarf, gloves, shoes, and backpack. Everything wet comes off, excluding my pants. I plop on the couch and sit still, eyes closed for a few minutes. I try to relax, but it is hard. I have so much to do, and I am not at all in the mood to do it. y hands ache from the storm. I don’t have arthritis or anything, I just pop my knuckles.
My roommate Megan comes through the door a few minutes later, snowflakes covering her hair and jacket like lacework. I’m amazed at her ability to wear winter as a jeweled accessory. “Hey,” she says. “What’s up?”
“Nothing much. Just thawing.”
“Yeah, it’s cold out there,” she replies with a big grin on her face. “I’m gonna take a nap before work, okay?”
I smile back at her and nod. I wish winter would treat me as well as it did her. My winter leaves me with crappy brown muck. Her winter adorns her with stars of pearl.
***
Three of my roommates are going to China for the fall semester and I will miss them terribly, but I want to stay here in the fall with Megan and her sister and friend. My only concern is this: what will my other roommates do when they come back in the Spring? Where are they going to live? I want to be roommates with them again.
pancakes with hotfudge and caramel and strawberry slices are yummy.
Keara has the complete collection of the original The Sims game. I am jealous. She gets to build houses in her spare time.
And...I got a 100% on my first statistics quiz! Yeah Me!
Megan asked me why I don't update my blog more often. I hope this was good enough for her.
