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Instant Karma
Fate Smacks a Fool Down (For Once)

I haven't found anybody that doesn't find yesterday's events riotously amusing, so I figured I'd share.

Sometimes, you are minding your own business and you get to personally witness karma throwing a People's Elbow down on somebody from the top rope (I certainly hope I didn't butcher that pop culture reference, but, I just don't watch wrestling).

Yesterday, I was on my way home from school when I saw some Michigan Road Kill happen right in front of me. For those of you not familiar with the term, Michigan Road Kill (MRK for short) refers to the vehicles that are just abandoned on the roads here in the Motor City.

No, that was not a typo or a fouled colloquialism, people here have car trouble on the road, and they get out and leave their car wherever it stopped. Literally. Fast lane, slow lane, two lanes, middle of an intersection, they just leave.

At any rate, as I followed the herd through a two lane turn onto a three lane road, the car in the right-most lane suddenly coasted to a halt. Right... in... the... lane. The car didn't suddenly halt, mind you. The driver, after losing power, didn't take that opportunity to remove his vehicle from the road, but instead, just drifted peacefully to a graceful stop in the middle of traffic, leaving chaos in his wake.

I pulled off the road behind him, walked up to his car, and asked if he needed help pushing his car. He replied that he would appreciate the help, so I walked back behind his car and waited for either him or his small, female passenger to come back and help. Apparently, neither were going to be coming, so I proceeded to start pushing his car.

And pushed, and pushed, and pushed.

Many yards up the road, it became apparent to me that he was not going to turn the wheel, enabling his car to exit the road. I returned to his window and, sarcasm oozing from my voice, asked what was going on.

"Were you going to turn the wheel, or am I pushing you home?", I asked.

"I only live up at Brady," he replied, then, seeing my look of incredulity, quickly added, "I'm only saying, it's not like a stupid thing to think, you know, that you might be pushing me to my house."

"Turn the wheel so that I can push you off the road SIR," says I, and in the immortal words of Dick Marcinco, I spelled "sir" CUR.

After watching him wrestle with his wheel to get it turned curb-ward, I returned to the rear of his vehicle and proceeded to push. As the car rolled up against the side of the road, the curb turned the wheels back straight, and I was again pushing his car down the road. I could clearly see him motioning wildly to his passenger with both hands as I pressed my body against his trunk and the thought occurred to me... what is he using to hold the wheel turned.

Apparently, nothing.

I returned to his window, fairly upset at this point, and barked at him to keep his hands on the wheel to prevent the vehicle from steering itself back straight. His look of anger was the only clue I needed that he was not pleased by my tone of voice.

It is times like this that are the reason I do not carry a gun.

I returned to the rear of his vehicle for the third time, and began to push again. After much strain, I managed to force the vehicle to mount the curb and exit the roadway. Then, I just kept pushing. About six feet from the road, there is a sizable downward slope that meets a grassy area, then woodland. Within seconds, I had started his car down the hill.

Whoops.

Now, in retrospect, I should probably be mildly ashamed at myself for my churlish behavior, but I'm not. He has a functional brake. He could have stopped. He was busy conversing.

Oops.

At this point the gentleman exits his vehicle to make the universal gesture of "What the fuck?" As he stood beside his car, arms stretched out on either side of him, palms up, elbows bent, he turned his look of confusion and disbelief back and forth between the grass-covered vehicle and me. As he began to ask me what happened, I heard a shrill voice from inside of his car. "It was in neutral," stated the voice.

My assumption would be that, if I could push the car, of COURSE it was in neutral. It took several moments for the import of this simple statement to become apparent in my mind. Immediately after I grasped what she had said, I could see the dawning recognition in his eyes. I watched in shock as he climbed back into his vehicle, the reverse lights lit up, and he proceeded to back up the hill toward me.

Still in shock, I observed him turn the wheel to back up along-side the road, placing his car parallel to the roadway; making himself ready to enter traffic. I shouted "It was in neutral, THAT is why it wouldn't go?" in utter disbelief.

That was, apparently, the last straw.

The gentleman (and I use this term loosely) extended, for me, his middle finger, stomped on the gas, and roared back onto the highway.

What kind of world do we live in where, despite my efforts to help him, I end up with a middle finger for my troubles.





The kind where it is advisable to look for oncoming traffic before entering a major road during the lunch rush.

He didn't even make it all the way onto the road before an Explorer struck him at over 40 MPH in the front, drivers-side of the vehicle just ahead of the front tire, throwing him back off the road and crippling his car.

You can't write comedy like this, but wait, there's more.

I note that everyone seems to be okay, and I start to head back to my vehicle to go home. When I get to my car, I turn around to see the driver of the Explorer following me, with the purpose of asking me to stick around to be his witness. I indicated that it would be my pleasure, but I did note that there's no way that he will need me as a witness. Then he shares with me that the other driver is calling it the Explorer's fault. Somehow, the MRK was merely an innocent bystander in all of this.

I returned to the scene and, while waiting for the police (who were unusually quick to arrive), I asked the MRK driver how he figured it wasn't his fault. I was steadfastly ignored. After a moment or two of conversation, the policia make their appearance and ask Explorer what happened. Explorer describes the circumstances as he saw them, so the cop turns to MRK, and asks for his story.

MRK's story is that he was waiting to get back on the road when the driver of the Explorer came to a complete halt on the road way "right about where you we're standing" and motioned for the MRK to go. As soon as he started to go, the Explorer accelerated rapidly and slammed into him.

Explorer and I just stood idly by, mouth agape, as this story was related to us.

Moments of silence followed during which Explorer just looked appalled, the cop looked around as if to find the hidden cameras that must be trained on him and MRK nodded incessantly with a sincere expression on his face.

I snapped.

"Are you frigging kidding me? His explorer managed to get up enough speed in 10 feet to go from a complete stop to utterly smashing your front end? What engine does he have in that thing? Are you drunk?" I ranted, winding down as the officer held up a hand to silence me and fixed his gaze on the driver of the now smashed car.

"Yes, I'm going to be finding you at fault," he uttered, "I'll need your license, registration, and proof of insurance, sir."

And the MRK driver looked him dead in the eye when he replied, "...ain't got none..."

That is a direct quote.

I made my way back to my car without waiting to find out which of the above he "ain't got none" of, because the surreal hue that my life had taken on was beginning to worry me considerably.

I still feel like I'm on an episode of Seinfeld or something.