A Dance with the Dentist (and the Law)

I was rear-ended on the freeway several months back. My bumper was dented, the passenger side of my car was scraped up and my mirror was cleanly plucked off by a girl’s Toyota Camry.

Thankfully we were both OK.   

Our cars driveable, we high-tailed it off the freeway. She called 911 and we waited for the police to arrive in a nearby Vons parking lot. The impact of metal-on-metal was fresh in my mind. Still, the worst had passed. Or had it? After all, I had recently been to the dentist.  

I had three cavities filled a half an hour before the accident. Infused with novacaine, all of the nerves on my tongue and around my mouth were numbed into submission. Remember that Seinfeld episode when Kramer was the guest of honor at an event mainly because he sounded “special” after a visit to the dentist? That was me, except I had a feeling the popo wouldn’t find my speech patterns as endearing. I’m not expert on the law or anything, but I’m pretty sure officers don’t take kindly to people who sound like they just finished a marathon-long pub crawl.  

I figured I should practice talking to someone, especially since my tongue only seemed capable of lazily hugging the side of my mouth - drool flowing from the right corner. But the only person in proximity to me was the very girl responsible for my predicament. We’d exchanged insurance information with a few muted words several minutes prior. She was clearly upset, and striking up a conversation ran the risk of being more upsetting. Not to mention, awkward.  ”Soooo… You hit me with your car, your insurance premiums will probably go through the ROOOF”

Actually, it would probably sound more like, “Sooohhhh.. Yud hid me wid yur cah…” 

Before I could test the waters, red and blue light’s flashed in front of us. The fuzz.

Doubting my ability to produce a sober-sounding account of the accident, I had another horrible realization: There was an empty wine bottle underneath my seat. Emphasis on was. Jarred loose by the crash, it projectiled against my left foot (if only the dentist had the foresight to inject said foot with novacaine) upon impact. Stunned by the accident, I couldn’t remember where it ended up. I subtly leaned against my grey Honda Accord and snuck a glance inside. A glint of glass by the clutch caught my eye. I considered quickly opening my door and lodging the bottle back beneath my seat.

Too late.

“How are you doing tonight?” Are you both doing alright?” 

The office walked toward us. We both nodded. 

“OK, that’s good to hear. Can you each tell me what happened? I’ll start with you.” 

He pointed at me and motioned south with his left hand, walking ten feet away from our cars. I followed him, leaving the upset girl next to her white Toyota Camry.  

Let’s briefly recap. Man (well, boy-like man) was in a car accident. Luckily he and the girl were unscathed. Another piece of good news: The accident wasn’t his fault. He was rear-ended. Yet the man sounds drunk. Looks drunk (he can’t help the goofy smile that’s always spread across his face). And the wine bottle conveniently located underneath the man’s steering wheel? That’s what the French called le coup de grace.

The law has another term for it: shithouse drunk.

The officer stared at me expectantly. I knew what I was going to say, but saying it was a whole ‘nother matter.  

“I wasch schtopped on the free-way… andd… andd… *gurling sound* … ”I feld a cah hid me frum be-hi.. be-hi…” *more gurgling*

I felt less self conscious the time I forgot to wear pants in Kindergarten I dreamt I’d forgotten to wear pants to school. This wasn’t going to work. I decided to level with him, wondering how many drunks had used the same defense. 

I inhaled quickly and exhaled slowly.     

“I’m sarry I can’t t schpeak. I wasch at ta dentiss ad he nubbed me.”

He stared at me. And kept staring, followed by several elongated blinks. Was he considering pulling out his breathalyzer?

Then I noticed the girl was walking toward us. Previously she’d looked upset, yet now her steps seemed composed. Oh no, if she was going to blame the accident on me, this would be the perfect time to pounce. 

“Officer, he was stopped on the freeway. I was going too fast and didn’t break fast enough, so I ran into him.” 

The spotlight was off me, thankfully. She proceeded to give him the rest of the details of the collision while I stood there, interjecting with a slurred word here and there. I felt awful for questioning her motives; she clearly wasn’t trying to pin anything on me.

Several minutes later, the officer told us we should call our insurance agents the next day. He hopped in his car and pulled away.  

I turned to the girl. 

“Thank yud fur tah-king.”  

I couldn’t be sure, but she seemed to really enunciate every word of her response. 

“NO PROBLEM. SORRY FOR THE TROUBLE. HAVE A GREAT NIGHT.” 

Did she suspect I was…?  No, couldn’t be. Or? Did she hear me talking about the dentist? Was she a Seinfeld fan?

I opened my door, put my wine bottle back into its rightful place and drove away.