The Accident That Started it All.

I swear it came out of fucking nowhere.

Tuesday, October 14, 2008. Approximately 9:45 a.m.

IT: the drivers-side-car-door belonging to a brand spanking white 2008 Honda Odyssey.
Alabaster---nay, a blinding ivory beacon. A glimmering ambassador from Heaven for soccer moms and four-star hotel airport vanpools everywhere, reflecting the sun as if it were Apollo Himself.

ME: a 12-speed,1986 Univega Viva Sport. Mixte. Silvery blue, with happy brown Oury grips and over 12 slightly obsessive hours of work put into its revival since I found it at a garage sale three months ago. The Bicycle was a gorgeous example of a fine, fairly inexpensive old road bike. In amazing shape, really. That is what I believed. From the first moment I checked it out up until the presently loud crunching sound of fiberglass hitting lugged steel and skin of now.

From what I can figure out, in 7 seconds:

door opens bike hits door front tire goes right handlebars hit neck and shoulder bending handlebars phloe hits door bike and phloe get thrown up into air bike flies back while gets thrown sideways into oncoming traffic hits pavement feels rings fly off fingers sees another car swerve within one foot of head rolls into fetal position and curses like sailor adrenaline goes into hyperdrive causing synapses to fire rapidly creating simultaneous doubt in everything and anything known to exist

Within thirty seconds of having the wind knocked out of me plus a very minute stint of blacking out, I can hear myself responding to various questions being thrown around in the ether:

How old are you?

Way too old for this kind of shit. Thirty-three.

Are you thirsty?

No, but I think I just got into a gnarly bike accident.

Do you need to be taken to the hospital?

Possibly. But I have a lot of reservations about managed care.

Cops CAN and DO laugh nervously, I found out.

After a while, I'm checking myself out, looking for blood: yes, there is blood. The side of my neck is missing some skin, my right hand makes me look like I am an extra waiting for cue in an Argento flick, and the back of my left calf totally gives me slasher cred. There is just enough blood to make me think: bitchin'.

The Ambulance rolls up, and two of LA's Finest Firemen get out to help me. Or so I think. One of the guys is apparently pissed off that they're on call duty while all the rest of his friends get to go fight the fire in Porter Ranch. Bob, I will call him. And. Bob. Is. Pissed.

Now. Unfortunately, Bob is: a goddamn HOT fireman. The kind you throw in the spank bank and don't tell people about when you're sitting in their jacuzzis. However. Bob is also a jerk. Which negates his spank feature instantly. Or, UPs it, depending on which side of the whip you fancy. But I digress. Bob is an asshole. Bob, descending upon said accident, and not bearing witnesseth to any carnage, is apparently filled with the fatigue of grotesque ennui, and does NOT want to be nice to me. I can only surmise that it has something to do with his probation of some sort: . Why else would he be exempt from fighting major fires in a media-covered frenzy of Southern California? Dig. This dude looked like the fucking PUNISHER.

He looks at my bleeding hand and says Well, I guess I'll get you something for that.
He turns back to the ambulance and emerges with some tape and a gauze patch. He proceeds to unwrap and stick the gauze patch on my cut.

Hold up. Where's your antiseptic?

What. Bob seems rather annoyed.

Antiseptic. Bactine. Hydrogen peroxide. Fairy dust.

For what?

Well, for starters, my hand was just drug on this slice of macadam pavement. Hence the blood. Don't you want to flush the rocks and shit out of it?

Do you know what Fireman Bob tells me?

Some people are allergic to hydrogen peroxide and Bactine.

I'm not.

There is an audible sigh from Bob.

Since some people are allergic, we don't carry those things. We have saline water. Do you want me to flush it with water?

I audibly sigh back. Duh. No. But is this what you do with everyone who has a boo-boo? I'm sure this doesn't go over well as a whole.

I can now tell that Bob is THIS CLOSE to kicking my ass.

Then I hear the sobbing.

I focus enough to notice a round-faced and petite asian woman, probably in her late 30s, trying to examine my hand and crying like there's no fucking hope of tomorrow. It dawns on me: this is the woman who owns the car door. She's in the middle of talking when I zone in.

"…and I called my insurance agent and they told me not to be nice to you, to tell you that this is all YOUR fault, but I can't! I'm…a Buddhist…I've…had…a..very…bad...month."

YooJin, she proceeds to tell me.

YooJin Kim is all she tells me before going into an almost hyperventilative fit. Inbetween bawling and about fifty Kleenex, she proceeds to tell me what a horrible month she has been having, and then this week she found out that her identity's been stolen, that three credit cards have been taken out in her name, and she finally got it together enough to come to the police station to file some kind of report and then- she can't conclude the story and collapses into almost child-like sobbing, but that's quite allright.

I found myself standing on the side of Venice Boulevard, using my one good hand to pat the shoulder of the person who owned the car that clobbered me.

What were the fucking chances of me getting decked by a Buddhist with Karma issues?

MONDAY PHLOE GOES TO THE DOCTOR. WAIT TO SEE WHAT HAPPENS...