Sitting Ducks
by Julia Sneden
I
had
a small accident a couple of weeks ago, the third in almost 50
years of driving. It happened in my own driveway. I scraped the
side of my car as I backed away from a tow truck that had been
called to give me a jump-start. I was hurried and flustered and
looking to the right to avoid my son’s car, parked beside me,
and simply didn’t pay attention to what I was doing on the left.
Damage to the truck was negligible; damage to my car was less
than my deductible; damage to my self-esteem was massive. Although
it was my third accident, it was the only one in which I was at
fault.
The first
accident happened about 20 years ago, when a large Mercedes slid
sidewise on an icy road, brushed against my little Mazda and whipped
me through a fence. The Mercedes drove on. I didn’t.
That was
probably my first experience in being a true victim. Until then
I had accepted (sometimes grudgingly) a share of the blame for
most of the unpleasant moments of my life. Blame is an unpleasant
burden, but shouldering it acknowledges that one is, at least,
an active participant in the situation, and not a passive victim.
I find it much easier to deal with being held accountable than
with feeling helpless in the hands of capricious Fate.
I have always thought of myself as a fairly
savvy person, able to cope with almost anything. I have traveled
across a couple of continents, have no fear of being alone in
strange places, and am not easily intimidated by adverse circumstances.
I don’t find victim-hood to my liking. Scraping my car through
my own carelessness wasn’t fun, but it wasn’t nearly as depressing
as being the victim of a hit-and-run Mercedes.
Which brings us
to my second accident. A few weeks ago, I was rear-ended while
sitting at a red light. There was a car stopped on my right and
a car stopped on my left in the left turn lane. When the woman
hit me, hard, I was knocked about 20 feet into the intersection,
and narrowly missed the cars from the feeder road, two lanes of
traffic streaming onto the parkway with a green light. I sat for
a moment, stunned, and then I got out of my car and walked back
to look at the damage. Man, I thought, I was a sitting duck at
that stoplight. The poor person who hit me is going have
insurance rate hikes that go through the roof.
The other woman was standing in front of
her car.
“Are you
all right?” I asked
“Oh,
my poor car!” she moaned. The front left fender was badly smashed
in.
“Are you
all right?” I repeated.
“Yeah,” she
said. “You?”
I realized
that my left shoulder was very sore, from the plunge into the
seatbelt shoulder restraint. I moved it gently. Just sore, I thought,
and said so. I didn’t want to claim instant injury and add to
her distress.
The police
came after a short while, and when the officer had checked our
positions, he asked us to move to a nearby gas station. When I
started to drive, I found that I was dragging the tailpipe and
muffler, and the car was steering strangely. At the gas station,
I went quickly to call my husband, who would be worrying about
me because by then I was very late getting home. The officer began
taking the other driver’s information while I called. When I came
back and gave him my documents and report, he informed me that
the other woman’s version of the story was different from mine.
She claimed that the light had been green. Any sympathy I felt
for her dissolved instantly.
“Then why
were there cars stopped on both sides of us?” I asked her. She
grinned at me.
“So sue me,”
she laughed.
The officer
intervened quickly. “I explained to her that since she ran into
you from behind, it’s essentially her fault because one is supposed
to maintain sufficient stopping distance, no matter what the circumstances,”
he said. He turned to her. “Even if the light had been green,
that wouldn’t give you the right to hit this woman.”
I was mildly grateful
for his defense, but it didn’t take the sting out of her painting
me as a foolish old lady who sits at green lights and causes accidents.
I found myself wondering whether she would have told so bold a
lie if I had not had a few gray hairs. I felt that I had become
a sitting duck in more ways than one. I am now of a certain age,
and look it. And much as I hate it, people feel they can treat
me differently because of it. Some of my friends believe they
receive such treatment just because they are female, but frankly,
until I hit my late 50’s, I had very few problems commanding respect.
There were
several witnesses to the accident who were not needed because
it was clearly the other woman’s fault, but I found myself longing
to find every one of them and have them attest to the color of
that light. It’s a good thing I don’t have high blood pressure,
because my sense of outrage was at stroke level.
The woman’s
insurance company, however, couldn’t have been nicer. They
agreed to rent me a car for however long it took to fix mine,
and when I explained that it would have to be an automobile with
a trunk large enough to carry my mother’s wheelchair, they assured
me that there would be no problem. I wrote down all the appropriate
numbers and called a rental agency that would pick me up. I explained
my special needs to the clerk at the rental desk, and he promised
to send a car right over.
Two hours
later, a driver in a bright red Neon showed up in my driveway.
I took the Neon to be the driver’s transportation, but when we
got to the agency, I was surprised to discover that it was my
rental car. When I objected, and reminded the young clerk that
I needed a car with a trunk large enough for my mother’s wheelchair,
he cheerfully informed me that he had called the insurance company,
and they would cover a compact car only. He added that I could
certainly pay the difference if I wanted to. I insisted on calling
the insurance company, and asked to use his phone.
“Oh,” he
said, “I’ll call them for you.” He dialed some numbers, and after
a short conversation, said cheerfully: “Well, you’re in luck;
they’ve decided to pay for the larger car.”
“They decided
that about six hours ago, when I called them,” I said quietly.
He looked at me, smiled, and shrugged
“The problem is
that I don’t have a larger car on the lot,” he said. (I restrained
myself from saying: So that’s what this is all about!). “If you’ll
wait half an hour, I’ve got one coming in.” I couldn’t walk off
in a huff inasmuch as I’d arrived without a car, so I sat down
to wait. Half an hour dragged by. No larger car appeared.
The young
man then offered me a sport utility vehicle. We looked at it,
but I felt constrained to point out that to get into it, one had
to be able to climb, and there was no way that a 4’10”, 93-year-old,
wheelchair-bound woman was going to be able to handle it.
For another hour, I sat in the office, waiting
for a larger car to be returned. Finally, I made some cranky noises,
and was loaned a small car to drive home, with the promise that
a larger one would be exchanged for it as soon as possible.
I was home
for scarcely half an hour when, true to their word, the driver
showed up with a Buick Century. He took the loaner back, and I
got into the Buick to move it into the carport. Immediately, the
“low tire” light came on. I called the rental agency.
“Oh, that’s
nothing,” the clerk said. “We had that tire checked and it’s just
fine, but we can’t turn the light off until the next servicing.”
When
I actually drove the car the next morning, I discovered that it
was not fine at all. There was a distinct “wocka-wocka” noise
coming from the right front wheel. I checked the tire pressure
at the gas station. The right rear wheel was several pounds low,
but the right front wheel was right on the recommended pressure.
I called the agency again. A new clerk answered.
“Oh,”
he said, “There’s really nothing to worry about. There’s probably
just something stuck to the wheel.”
“No,” I said, “there
is definitely something wrong. Even my deaf mother can hear it.”
“Look,” he said
with exasperation, “the last guy who rented it drove all the way
to Florida and back, and HE never complained about it.”
“Are you
telling me that this has happened while it sat overnight in my
driveway?” I asked him. He quickly backed down, even though he
kept insisting that nothing could be wrong with it, and agreed
to find me another car. It took three days. When I went to the
lot to pick up the new car, the same clerk said, with a dismissive
laugh:
“That’s nothing
but an old bald spot on the tire. Haven’t you ever driven a car
with a bald spot on a tire?” Since he hadn’t so much as looked
at the tire or the car, I could only assume that he’d known about
the bald spot all along. And no, I told him politely, I certainly
had never driven a car with a bald spot on the tire, especially
not a front wheel drive vehicle, which would become quite unmanageable
should that bald spot give way. And he had no business renting
me one.
I don’t think
of myself as someone who is quick to take offense, but there I
was, feeling like a sitting duck again. These youngsters seemed
to feel that an older woman wouldn’t be able to resist their glib
salesmanship, and when I stood up for myself, they made it clear
that they felt I was being unreasonable and demanding.
I don’t suppose
that there is much to learn from this tale of woe, except that
sitting ducks are good targets only if they stay in place and
behave as expected. I for one intend to keep squawking, flapping
my wings, and paddling my little webbed feet like crazy.