if you've ever told a lie and then watched it take on a life of its own, this post is for you

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like i've said earlier, i was a pretty good kid (especially compared to, say, my mother's best friend reba's sociopathic son alan, whom, although i avoided him like the plague, i thanked god for daily since with each new atrocity he committed i just looked better and better. but i digress).

my biggest flaw (other than this), was a tendency to carelessness--being depressed, i didn't give a shit, which meant i didn't pay attention to what i was doing about half the time.

and this was ok for the most part--i mean, i broke things and ran into walls a lot, but i made it through life more or less intact, no harm no foul.

until i got my driver's license, and it became a bigger problem.

the first accident was fairly simple and straightforward: we're in my mom's car (the sweetest little 350/4-barrel cutlass coupe you'd ever wanna see), i've had my license for about a month, my best friend david's riding shotgun, my little brother's in the back seat and (this being texas and all) we're looking for a gun shop. so intent am i in my search, in fact, that as soon as the light turns green i hit the gas and commence my left turn--right into the path of an oncoming car which, unfortunately, has right-of-way. WHAM!

what killed me about this accident (nobody was hurt, btw) was my mother's attitude throughout the whole thing: even though i had carelessly fucked up her flawless little car, all she cared about was that we were ok. and even in the ensuing weeks of hardship when we were without the car while it was being repaired--and were thus totally at the mercy of friends and neighbors for transportation--she never once gave me shit about it.

we eventually got the cutlass back, it was almost as good as before, and life went on.

soon thereafter, i got my own car, which i proceeded in fairly short order to wreck twice--i won't go into the details because they're not particularly interesting or germane to the story at hand; suffice it to say that, by the time the following events took place, i had a well-earned reputation among friends, family and insurance company as a wild card behind the wheel.

fast-forward several months: it's two in the morning and i suddenly need to talk to david about something, i don't remember what. calling him's outta the question--it would've awakened the whole household--so i naturally head over there.

and given the choice, i always grab my mom's keys--it's a much sweeter ride than mine. i haul ass around the loop--nobody on the road but me--and turn off onto arlington toward david's house. next thing i know, something happens and the car flips over, lands on its roof--WHAM!

i somehow manage to kick my way out, stand up and look back at the car--upside-down, roof crushed almost flat, wheels still turning slowly, headlights shining through the smoke--and then, adrenaline coursing through my 16-year-old veins, run at top speed all the way to david's house, pound breathlessly on his window and tell him what's happened. we get his mom up, drive back over to the accident scene--by now, a crowd has gathered--and await the arrival of the tow truck.

david and his mom drive me home--longest drive of my life, lemme tell ya--and ask me if i want 'em to come in and help me tell my mom. i say "no," walk in and face the music alone.

"ma, wake up--i just had an accident; i wrecked your car again."

"oh, my god, honey--what happened, are you ok?"

"yeah, i'm all right. i dunno what happened. i just...passed out for a second, and next thing i knew, i was upside down."

and she hugged me, counted all my fingers and toes and made sure i was ok. i told her it wouldn't be so bad this time; at least she'd have the use of my car while hers was being fixed. and for the moment, everything was ok.

except everything wasn't ok, because every word of the story i told my mother was a god damn lie.

here's the careless, stupid, teen-aged truth of what really happened that night: i turned off the loop onto arlington, reached for the radio to change stations and, in the process of so doing, dropped my cigarette. and, rather than doing the intelligent thing and coming to a stop to look for it, i continued rolling along while bent over blindly groping around on the floorboard for it like a fucking idiot. next thing i know, WHAM!--i run up on the curb. then, as i'm frantically trying to drag my head back out from under the dashboard, straighten up and figure out what's happening while simultaneously fumbling for the brake pedal, the right front bumper hits a guywire holding up a telephone pole, the rear wheels drive the car forward up the wire, and--just as my foot finds the brake--the car flips over onto the street.

wham.

the next day, guilt-ridden, i wake up determined to tell my mother the truth, only to find out that i've already been booked into mother frances hospital for a week of tests to determine the cause of my "blackout;" seems that, between (a) our insurance company, who, having already paid out three claims on my behalf in less than a year, is threatening to deny the current claim and cut off our insurance unless i'm thoroughly tested; and (b) my mother, who is frantic to find out what's wrong with her baby, we're gonna get to the bottom of my problem one way or the other.

so yeah, i ended up spending a week in the hospital being poked, prodded and invaded for no good goddam reason.

and the tests--costly, lengthy, excruciating and totally unnecessary--turned up nothing abnormal, of course, but they served to (a) assuage my mother's concerns for my well-being; and (b) force the insurance company's hand--they paid off after all.

eventually, we got the cutlass back. but this time, it was kinda like something that had gotten buried and resurrected in stephen king's pet sematary: although it looked the same, it was scary/dangerous to drive and we traded it shortly thereafter, to my mother's everlasting regret.

she loved that goddam car.

* * * * *

28 years later:

i pull into her driveway, walk next door to where i know she and my sister are having a christmas-eve drink with the neighbors, ring the doorbell and, to her astonished "honey, my god, i thought you were flying in tomorrow," i smile, toss her the keys to her new car and say, "nah, i decided to drive instead--merry christmas, ma."

i can only hope that, in that place up there where eternal karmic records are kept, this at least counts for something.