A few months after my two Speedy Mcgee incidents, I made my very first court appearance. Dressed professionally and looking confident, I walked into the court room and waited amongst a wide variety of individuals for my name to be called. When it was my turn, I walked up to the judge and he asked if I plead guilty to speeding (the second ticket–the first I received supervision for.)
“Your honor, I would like to plead guilty with the request for supervision.”
“Is this your first violation?”
“No, sir. I received a speeding ticket a week prior to this one.”
After he regained his composer from the slightly confused, slightly shocked look that he gave me, he said, “Well, why should you receive supervision a second time?”
“Your honor, I really have learned my lesson. I’ll be taking traffic safety school soon, and I know that I will not speed again.”
“Is the traffic safety school a requirement for your first supervision?”
“Yes, your honor.”
He looked at me, scrutinized me, and finally said, “Granted. Miss W–, you’re dismissed. Next case, please.”
I left the courtroom, did a mini happy dance outside, and called my mom. All was well.
Until early October.
I was running a little late, meeting my pal Cletus for a secret shop dinner on a rainy and stormy evening. Wearing a pair of really great shoes with slightly higher heels, I was pulling up to a stop light. Somehow, my foot slipped off the brake and fell on the accelerator, pushing me forward into the rear end of a (really ugly) Mercedes Benz from the 80’s in pretty stellar condition. Ruh Roh.
We pulled into the nearest parking lot, a Home Depot, and got out of our cars. I checked out the damage on Melba Toast (the name of my white ’94 Ford Explorer). A pretty decent dent in the front bumper for me, and a smashed trunk for the Benz. I apologized profusely. I wasn’t sure what to do. Do I ask her not to call the police? Do I pay for this out of pocket? I called my mom.
She answered on the first ring. “Hallo.”
“Ma…I got into an accident.”
“I hit another car. My foot slipped off the brake. I rear ended them.”
“Did you call the police?”
“No, we didn’t.”
“Well hang up with me and call the damn police.” Oh shit, she sounds pissed. Of course, I was crying at this point.
I hung up the phone and told the owner of the Benz (a very nice middle-aged lady who seemed to feel genuinely bad that this twenty-something was crying because she hit her car) that I was calling the police.
After the police told me that they were on their way, I called Cletus. He laughed at me and told me that he was on his way over to the Home Depot.
Cletus arrived just after the police officer arrived. He was incredibly nice, telling me that it was going to be okay. Apparently he couldn’t see my driving record. Thank you, supervision.
He wrote me a ticket, and as he handed it to me, he said, “I’m giving you a ticket for failure to reduce speed to avoid an accident. I’ll be taking your license as bond. There will be a court appearance. You’ll receive the date in the mail. I’ve told the other woman that if everything was covered by your insurance, she shouldn’t go to the court date to help you out. If she doesn’t show up, you can plead not guilty, and this ticket will go away. You’ll get your license back on the court date. Do you understand?”
“Yes, officer. Thank you so much.”
“She seems like a very nice lady, so I think that you will be okay.”
“Thank you so so much officer. I really appreciate it.”
“Drive safely from now on.”
And he walked back to his car and drove away. Cletus was amused, but sympathetically made sure that I was okay. We proceeded on to dinner, just in time. There were time limits to the secret shop requirements, but we made it in flying colors, and enjoyed a tasty free meal. I finally calmed down (after a cocktail or two), and things were going to be A-OK.
Or were they?
That’s right, friends. This story is STILL not over.
To be continued with the most ridiculous accident ever.