A Holiday Memory

I remember that day the way one remembers dried egg on a dinner fork in a posh restaurant. The shock of it, a revulsion that closes the pores, like fumes in a port-a-john.

Almost ten years ago, I packed the car with Christmas presents and drove off, anticipating a weekend with my wife (with whom relations have been rather strained since the incident I’m about to relate) and her family up North. I drove along the river on a familiar stretch of road, until I reached the main thoroughfare. Here, I’d intended to turn left, as I had many times before, without the aid of the traffic light that would be installed years later. I waited for a break in the flow of traffic and proceeded to make the turn. With a screech of metal, I knew I’d been involved in an accident. Another car had crossed my path, and had scraped the bumper off of my front end. The driver, whose name has been etched on my Plaque of the Damned for all time, was a thumb of a woman in a red exercise suit. She came at me like a Grizzly Bear on the tragic magic, screaming, “Stay right there! Don’t you move!” The proliferation of cell phones had not yet occurred, so she ran to the nearest house to call the police. Meanwhile, I sat, reflecting. The officer ruled the accident “No fault,” and I limped away, my jostled load of shiny presents glowing in the back seat, a lasting tribute to the happy times that might have been.

The day after Christmas, I received a summons in the mail, a gift from the Grizzly. She had lodged a citizen’s complaint against me. To prepare for my day in court, I photographed the crime scene, hoping to prove that the shrieking dervish had been driving well above the speed limit. But as I croaked into the night court microphone, I ran my fingers along the 8x10 glossies so lovingly prepared by my own hands in my closet darkroom. Drained of innocence by the convincing performance of my nemesis, I knew I would never produce the photographic evidence, and I accepted my fate.

“While I’m sure there was no malicious intent,” said the Judge, “I hereby order you to pay the fine.” To complete my humiliation, I wasn’t allowed to leave until I paid $70. Standing there at the pay phone down the hall, an officer of the court at my side, I asked my wife to leave work early and rescue me.

So, every year around this time, I slip into my basement and raise a glass to the memory of the Grizzly as I hover above the mound of dirt at my feet.