An Accident

I’ve gotten into an accident in my scooter before. You could call it a car accident. I know – how does that even happen, right? Maybe it’s because I was on my way to the worst thing a college student could go to, twice a week for an entire semester: an 8 a.m. class. Honestly, I’m jealous of morning people. I never was one and I really don’t know how I ever made it to first period in high school when class would start at 7:30. Nevertheless, I’d always make it to class on time because I hated being late. Since I left my scooter right outside the classroom and walked in by holding onto the walls, I always sat in the back; I couldn’t walk without holding onto anything, so if all the seats were taken near the door and class had already begun, I was screwed.

Even though waking up early was a nightmare, getting to class wasn’t that bad. It was located pretty central on campus and all I had to do was cross a wide street. This was a basic gravel street, but no cars were allowed on it because it sort of acted as a hallway; it was between a row of portable classrooms and the building that housed Social Science classes. I was on my way to my Sociology class ­– I had literally 30 seconds or fewer to arrive – when something rammed into the back of my scooter. I almost flung off.

I couldn’t believe what had happened to me. It wasn’t like I was driving on a freeway! Was it a biker? Yet it couldn’t be – the impact felt hard like a hunk of metal rammed into my back. I turned around, amazed to find that a tiny truck had hit me. It was one of those small trucks about the size of a golf cart with a long open trunk. A timid Asian man immediately stepped off and asked me if I was ok. I was surprised to find that he was as shocked as I was since he was the one who ran into me. I asked him right away: what happened? He admitted that it was completely his mistake, telling me that he was turning the corner and entering the street but he had not seen me. Seriously, nothing good ever happens about going to an 8 am class. I rubbed the back of my neck where I experienced whiplash as I learned that he was someone who worked at the mobile café on campus. He told me that he was on his way delivering supplies with a worried look on his face, looking as if he committed a heinous crime that was worthy of him going to jail. Really though, that would be a top contender for the weirdest thing that could happen in the history of the universe. Imagine the news headlines: “Man arrested for rear-ending a disabled student in a scooter.”

I mean, what was this, anyway? It was like one of those classic minor car accidents that you see on the side of the freeway; only, this didn’t involve cars – technically, it had a scooter and a truck with no legitimate name, one that at least I knew of. Still, the man examined the back of my scooter and I made sure to get his name, but as crazy as this sounds, I was more worried about getting to class on time than what just happened. There seemed to be nothing damaged with my scooter anyway and my neck wasn’t hurting too much so I told the man that I was fine. I was still relatively in shock during the entire time in class, though. When I went to the library during my break, I couldn’t wait to tell my friend what ridiculous “accident” I got into. And just like I pictured her eyes opening wide in disbelief, when I told her the news her jaw hung open as she blurted “What?!!” repeatedly in the library. I laughed and told her that everything was ok until she noticed something about my scooter. There on the back a stark line went across the black plastic cover.

“Fuuuuuuck,” I groaned. I hadn’t noticed the crack from where I had been sitting on my scooter. My friend helped me take pictures of it with my phone and I worried about what to do.

“Who do I even call? The police?” I asked. My friend and I just looked at each other, lost. Then after a couple minutes she looked at me.

“You got to call campus security,” she said. “Just tell them exactly what happened.” I sighed and agreed with her that that was the most appropriate thing to do. But as I looked for the number I pondered how to describe the accident.

Surely enough when I called the dispatch, they thought I was joking.

“No, I use a scooter – a mobility scooter, like the ones in the supermarket, you know – and the guy works for the café by the row of Soc. classes,” I cried.

It was no use. Saying it aloud definitely sounded dumber than how I imagined it in my head, even though that sounded dumb too. I hung up and just decided to go to the actual security campus with my cracked scooter and all.

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