Monday, April 12, 2010

The Glove Box

I was 5. We were riding in the backseat of a small car, squashed together like folded socks in a suitcase. I don't know where we were going, but there was something in front of me that had me terrified. It lurked in the glove box like some phantom waiting for me to sleep to creep on me. I was afraid the glove box, which isn't for gloves at all, would pop open and he would be there, staring at me with those disgusting eyes and that long tongue. I was playing with my fingers as my mother sat in the front seat with her friend, who was driving. They were laughing. My brother, a foster child my mom took in, and I were in the back waiting to get out of this Spam can and run around. It was dark outside and the street lights didn't seem to work, which brought on my fear of the phantom in the glove box.

Smash! We were hit from behind. My senses jolted, and I became confused. Something sharp was driven between my left arm and my side and pushed through to the seat in front of me. I didn't feel hurt and I wasn't bleeding. No one in our car was bleeding. People were panicking, my mom was holding her neck. Still I had no idea what just happened. But I do remember looking at that glove box as it had popped open. There he was, the phantom. It was as my mother explained, the bass player and singer of KISS. None other than Gene Simmons in full make-up. I was hysterical at the sight of the monster. I have learned to be more afraid of this guy without the make-up.

Then a man from the car behind, who had hit us came walking up to the passenger door. He was covered in blood and was dyed red on every part skin should appear. He asked if we were OK. He was really nice. I remember being calmed by him as he looked back at my brother who was hysterical. He was 9. He was crying uncontrollably and wanted out of the car. The man offered to take him to his truck and show him his CB to calm him down. My brother went with him and as he was lifting my brother into the cab, a drunk driver hit the man's open door, causing it to swing back at devastating force and hit the man as my brother was cut on the knee. The man flew backwards and landed in his own truck bed.

My mother retrieved my brother and that is the end of my recollection of the incident. I don't know if the guy lived or died and I don't think I want to know. But I remember being shocked that the sharp thing which punctured through the truck (Later to be identified as an umbrella with one of those suicidal pointy things on the end) hadn't killed me. I was amazed and thankful. It was so close.

I am glad God allowed me to remember that.


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1 comment:

  1. You're like James Bond, except you're not trying to kill anyone. And you don't work for the government. And you're not a womanizer.