Forgetting the Best Part
Now that socialization is back on the table for many of us, we may find ourselves sharing stories from the Year Apart. Or...maybe you’re finding that “stories” from this past year are in short supply.
As for me, I had an incredibly eventful year, despite spending most of it in the same room. There are some great events to recount, but this Friday I found myself sharing the story of a pretty awful one: my car accident.
The story goes like this: It was a hot September day. I was tired of being cooped up in my apartment, so I decided to go for a drive, no destination in mind. My little trooper of car had recently passed its smog test and I was ready to see some streets I hadn’t laid eyes on in a while. I turned off of Sunset near Dodger Stadium and made a right turn from Vin Scully Avenue onto Stadium Way.
Suddenly, with no warning, my car spun 90 degrees, and I slammed on the brakes to stop the skid. I was now perpendicular to the flow of traffic, in the middle of the road. I’d been hit, but by whom, and how? I had no idea what had happened — there were no cross streets, no cross traffic, no driveways. Stadium Way has high embankments on either side, not so much as an intersection for nearly half a mile.
I was eventually able to piece it together. The other driver, a young woman, had been parked on the shoulder. Believing the road was clear, she had made a huge U-turn from the shoulder, across two lanes, so she could avoid that half-mile drive in the wrong direction. Not seeing me, she’d revved right into the passenger side of my former car. She was extremely apologetic, kind, and cooperative. No one was hurt. Her car was okay.
Mine, though, was a wreck.
The parts that allowed it to function as a car (engine, gas tank, etc) remained unscathed, but the rear passenger door of my car was shredded, pointy claws of silver steel sticking out. This door was now impossible to fully close; neither door on the right side of the car would OPEN, either.
That was the story, more or less as I recounted it on Friday. I went on to describe the lasting side effects of the accident, all psychological. I’ve been driving a lot more lately, and I am constantly on guard for cars coming toward me from the right. I give wide berth to any car nudging out from a side street to insinuate itself for a right turn. Just a few weeks back, I honked at someone I was sure was careening right toward me, only to see that they were just making a wide turn into a parking lot. Even as a passenger, I gasp if I notice an unexpected movement in the right lane.
All of that stuff was a part of the story of my car accident. But upon later reflection, I realized that in my telling, I had left out a big part of the story: the part between the accident and the side effects.
I was sitting in my car, coming down from the shock. I decided to ask for a tow truck, feeling it was dangerous (for other cars on the road) to drive even a short distance with my door so shredded and partially open. It was the heat of the day, around 2pm, and my car’s A/C had quit working a year after I bought the thing. Now, I was on hold as an insurance agent tried to figure out where to send a tow truck.
A car slowed to a stop beside me. Inside were a man in his 40s and a young son. They asked if I needed help; I told them no. Instead of driving away, the father asked me if I needed some water. I paused, ready to politely decline once more and let this man get back to his life. But then, I decided to say yes.
I expected him to pull a bottle of water from the backseat. Maybe he expected to find one there as well. But after a quick look, he told me they’d be right back, and drove away.
A few minutes later (still no update from the tow company) the man and his young son — about 9 or 10, as I recall — returned with water. I took it gratefully and, in exchange, offered an explanation as to why I was sitting on the shoulder of Stadium Way in my boiling, ruined, but technically functional car. The father listened, then parked behind me on the shoulder. He pulled a roll of CAUTION tape out of his trunk, and proceeded to manhandle the mangled door into submission, even knicking his hand in the process. We didn’t talk much, but I learned a few vague details about the little family; they were staying in a nearby shelter (not sure what sort, and I didn’t ask). He used to work at a gas station on Fletcher where some shady business went down; he had been to prison but was now focused on his son (who remained in the car, appearing interested but not terribly surprised by his father’s helpfulness and openness).
When the man offered to follow my car wherever I was headed, driving behind me with his flashers on to create a buffer zone, my street smarts kicked in, and I declined. But somehow, a few minutes later, I was crawling down Sunset Boulevard, in a daze of confused shock and wary gratitude, father and son behind me as my rear escort vehicle.
After I was safely parked closer to home, the wariness faded — this had really happened. I’d essentially been rescued by a passing stranger, and not for the first time in my life. I offered to give him something, not quite knowing what I meant — maybe some cash, sure, but also I had some cookies upstairs I could bring down? But the man definitely assumed I was trying to pay him. He pulled out a money clip stuffed with cash, fanned the bills out to show me that he was doing fine. He said that he didn’t offer help in order to get anything in return. He just wanted to be helpful and set a good example for his kid. He drove away. I don’t remember his name, or if he even told me what it was.
I think, write, and talk about “negativity bias” quite often. Paradoxically, negativity bias is both a mark of human frailty and an evolutionary survival tactic. Put simply, it means that we tend to remember the bad things that happen — to us and in our world — more easily than the good.
Because we can adopt a habit of positive thinking/gratitude journaling/counting our blessings, it’s easy to dismiss “negativity bias” as something that we can overcome. Or, we can chalk it up to personality: are you an optimist or a pessimist? What’s your Enneagram Type? What’s your zodiac sign? What’s your Myers-Briggs? Well no wonder you’re so negative!
My new driving quirks are evidence to the contrary. My conscious mind is not afraid of cars bombarding me from the right. Those little swerves, gasps, and honks; my racing heart after what I perceive as a near-miss, even as it dawns on me that I was never in danger; this is negativity bias working directly from my body, to protect my body. The mind is not being consulted.
I hate that I’m sometimes so jumpy in the car now. But…I guess I’m grateful that my body has tricks to keep me safe?
See what I did there? I forced myself to remember the positive. I can admit that this IS a personality trait of mine, and finding the wider-perspective positive comes more easily for me than others (Cautious Optimist/Enneagram 2/Pisces/ENFP, if you’re curious). But it’s still WORK to see the bright side, or to remember the good. In some areas of my life, it’s a LOT of work.
I wish that the “helped by a selfless, interesting stranger” aspect of my car accident story were the part my body had internalized. I wish that the thoughts of the friends and family who helped me out over the next days and weeks came to mind as readily as the feeling of sitting in my driver’s seat, stunned to inaction, in the middle of Stadium Way. Alas, that’s not something I have control over.
But when I tell the story of my car accident, I can CHOOSE to make sure this man and his son get an honorable mention. Not only is it a touching example of the goodness in humanity, and of how a little trust can be its own reward, but it’s also the most interesting part of the story.
