Broken People

by Scott Hildreth

  As I impacted the car, and pushed it about five feet forward, I did not think about damaging the Taurus. I didn’t wonder if anyone was hurt, or what may or may not have happened. I wondered what my current wreck count was. Fifteen? Thirty? Seventy? I had, over the course of the last year or so, rear ended at least five people. Each time, I needed a new hood, the front bumper repainted, and new grilles. In past years, I typically had a wreck about twice a year. Each time, I would rear end someone.

  Disappointed, I got out of the car, not even paying attention to the car in front of me. I turned and looked at the front of the BMW, and as I suspected, it needed the standard repair. Hood, grilles, and bumper repaint. This was my third e46 platform BMW M3. I had driven this particular series of car for ten years, and it had become a trademark of mine. All I did was change colors. I vowed to never have anything else.

  I turned to the car that I had hit, and then focused my eyes on the fifty something year old woman that had exited from the Taurus. She got out, turned to me, and said, “What in the world were you doing? I can tell you what you weren’t doing, and that’s paying attention to driving. I watched you for the last three miles. Are you just drunk?” Her voice sounded like it was created by a rubber band that was stretched too tight, and left in the California sun for a summer.

  She was dressed like a bum, and it appeared that her last few dollars were spent on her cigarettes, one of which hung from her right hand. She stunk like a tobacco bonfire, and I was ready for her to vanish. Her hair didn’t look like it had been washed for quite some time. Nice look, lady. Dreadlocks on a fifty year old white woman. Well, if she fell asleep smoking, at least her hair wouldn’t immediately go up in flames. Or would it? I stood and wondered if the grease in the dreadlocks would be an accelerant or a deterrent.

  “Ma’am, I am sorry for the damage to your car. Maybe we should pull over and discuss matters,” I looked at her hair with disgust, but offered a smile. I suspect I looked like a liar.

  “I have called the police,” she said. “That’s what I was doing while you were looking at your car.” She blew smoke from her grotesquely tan nose as she spoke. Her lips were wrinkled and covered in lines.

  “Police?” I uttered. “Why did you call the fucking police? This is something we can settle right here and now. I do not want to wait for the police.”

  “Well, when you are involved in a wreck, you call the police. It is required” she said, taking another unnecessary pull from what appeared to be a cigarette butt.

  Standing in front of her, I made eye contact. With my hands in my pockets, I tried to convince her, “It is not required, it is recommended,” I lied. “We can settle this right here and now, without the police, and go about our way, and everyone’s happy.” She started to interrupt, but I continued, and added a little embellishment, “You decide what the damage repairs to your car are worth, and I hand you cash. It’s that simple. You decide, plain and simple. I haven’t had my insulin shot this morning, and I need to get home as soon as possible. Truth be known, I am sure that’s why I was daydreaming. What do you think?”

  Puzzled, she looked at me and spoke, “Let me get this straight, I give you an amount, and you pay me caaaaaaaash?” The word ‘cash’ lasted a lifetime. I waited, as she attempted to finish her sentence, for the rubber band in her throat to snap.

  “Yes ma’am, cash,” Pointing to the side of the road, I continued. “But we either need to settle this, or move to the side of the road. We are going to get hit. Again.” I was trying to encourage her to make a decision so I could leave before the police arrived.

  People had gathered, and were watching the show, asking to make sure we were not injured. She looked at the rear of her car, looked at the sides, and placed her hand on her chin. Turning to face me, she made her offer.

  “Two hundred dollars.” She raised one eyebrow, and tossed the butt in the street, stepping on it with her toe.

  Satisfied with her response, I reached deep into my left front pocket, and got the money clip out. As I turned away from her, I removed two one hundred dollar bills, making sure she couldn’t see how much money I carried. Although I did not have a huge wad of cash at this point in time, it was not uncommon for me to carry several thousand dollars in my pocket. Just in case. For what reason, I never really knew, but I just felt more secure with larger amounts of money. As I turned back to face her, I extended my arm in an offering gesture. “Ma’am, I appreciate the consideration, it is just simpler in this fashion, and we can both go our own way.” As she accepted the money, and placed it into her palm, she looked down at my canvas sneakers, and then slowly up the height of my three hundred plus pound frame.

  “You don’t have insurance, do you?” she asked over her shoulder, walking away, her hands fumbling with the two bills, counting them and recounting them as she walked. Yes lady, they’re both still there….

  “Do I look like I don’t have insurance?” I answered. Knowing I probably did not look like I had auto insurance. I continued, “Lady, I have insurance, I drive a sixty thousand dollar car, and it is insured. Let’s just get out of here, so I can get my insulin, and we can prevent yet another accident, how does that sound?”

  She continued to walk to her car, and I turned to walk to mine. As I did, I looked at my shoes. Typical fat kid attire. Canvas sneakers, with the soles worn through. I opened the door, and stuffed myself into the car. Getting in and out was a feat in itself, but once I was in, I felt comfortable. I sighed deeply, knowing the cost of my repairs. I had done this too many times. Two thousand dollars. As I put the car in gear, and began to drive away, I thought. Do I have car insurance?

  Frequently, I will just hop in my car with no intended destination and drive. Sometimes, I may be gone a month, or longer. As a result of these extended trips, I developed a pattern of not picking up my mail. I lived in a building of condominiums, and the mail was delivered to a common mail box area. This arrangement was similar to a post office with personal post office boxes. The boxes had numbers on them that corresponded with the house number of the residence that they served.

  One day, when attempting to pick up my mail, I opened the box. To my utter surprise, the box was nearly empty. A small yellow card was all that was in the box. On the card it said several things, but the primary message was clear. “THIS MAILBOX HAS BEEN VACATED”. It went on to say that the mail was returned to the post office, and that it could be picked up prior to a particular day. Checking the date on the card, and then the date on my phone, I found that my mail had been cancelled for two months.

  I called the phone number on the card for the post office that would have been holding my mail, and asked to speak to the postmaster. Within a few moments a woman and I were speaking. I asked several questions regarding procedure and policy, and explained my extended trips, making excuses for not retrieving my mail in a timely manner. I was offered an explanation of what may have happened.

  The postmaster offered the following explanation: When the mail collects to the point that there can no longer be room for the additional mail to be added, a notice is placed in the box requiring removal of mail. If, within the allotted time frame listed on the card, the mail isn’t removed, it is returned to the post office. At that point in time, the “VACATED” card is added.

  Offering my apology, I agreed that I would, if out of town for an extended period of time, place notice with the post office to hold my mail. We agreed that this should, in a perfect world, never happen again. I wouldn’t abandon my mailbox without notice, and they wouldn’t cancel my mail services and remove my mail. Niceties were exchanged, and I was informed that my mail delivery would continue beginning the following day. As we finished the conversation on the phone, I made a note in the calendar on my smart phone to remind me to pick up the mail in two months.

  Two months later, while driving to the coffee shop, my phone alarm went off, reminding me to get the mail. After a short trip of coffee, lunch, and other errands, I returned home. The m
ail delivery person was at the building, as was indicated by his mail truck outside the door.

  Entering the building from the rear, I spotted the mail man. He was about fifty years old, gaunt, but in shape, as you would expect a mail man to be. He was a large man, and stood about six foot three. His skin was tan and leathery. As he was gathering his things to go, I made an issue of opening my box, and relaying to him my displeasure of his cancelling my box, now seven months prior. He responded by telling me he was getting ready to place yet another “VACATE” card in the box. As I opened the box, I found a good two inches of room left for “new” mail.

  Making my position immediately clear, I brought it to his attention that I had, in fact, talked to the postmaster. I continued with stating that I assumed that the postmaster was his superior, and with a good two inches of mail room to spare, he did not have the authority or the need to cancel my mailbox. He, being a lowly delivery person, should continue to smile and deliver the mail. And that is all.

  His rebuttal was weak, but extremely offending. “Sir, you need to remove the mail from the box, or it will be cancelled. You can’t allow the mail to collect in the box.” He seemed to get taller as he spoke.

  And that is when I threatened the mail man.

  “Oh, you’re going to tell me what I need to do. Really? Well, let me tell you something. You need to get out of here, before I whip your mailman ass. I will whip your ass all the way back to your truck.” As I stepped toward him, he stepped backward, speaking to me as he left. In an elevated tone, but not screaming, he began a feeble attempt in defending his honor.

  Extending his arm, and holding his index finger in the air, he growled, “If you threaten me, I will call the police.”

  “I did threaten you, and call the police. By the time they get here, this will all be over,” I began to set my computer bag down on the floor.

  As he walked to his truck, I walked back to the mailbox. The mailbox door remained open. Angrily, I removed the entire contents of the mail, and dumped it into the trash. As if this would be some form of satisfactory retribution for his being a complete incompetent ass. I smiled as I turned and walked back to the car, thinking of him opening the box the next day. He would actually think I took the mail home with me. I smiled again.

  I entered my condo, and remained there for the day, waiting on the police to arrive. No police. No phone calls from the postmaster, and no angry drunken mailman at my door wanting to try his luck at the Fat Kid. As I looked out the window for police that never arrived, I wondered how long it would have taken me to beat the mailman’s ass. Thirty seconds? A minute? Certainly not two or three. I went to sleep that night extremely satisfied about the mail being in the trash. I didn’t even look at one piece of it. Now that was satisfying.

  And, as I pulled away from the accident, I wondered. Was it possible that my insurance invoice for this period could have been in that pile of trash that I threw away? As I fumbled for another tube of almonds, disappointment filled me. It disappointed me that I had probably thrown away my insurance card, wrecked my car again, and, that someone would ruin perfectly good chocolate by inserting an almond in the center.

  Entering the freeway, I tapped my hand on the gearshift. The Black Keys played over the stereo. As I used my tongue to clear the remaining almond matter from my teeth, the phone beeped. Picking it up and looking at the screen, I could see that I had received an email. Opening the email screen, I saw that it was from Shellie. Relieved and filled with wonder, I opened the email. The “subject” line caught my eye. SUBJECT : Getting worse.

  Focusing back on the road, I knew what I had to do.

  Help. This. Girl.

  Chapter 4

  I like this boy

  BRITNEY. Staring into my closet, I was trying to decide what to wear. My mother had said that we were going out to eat for my birthday, and should be leaving at noon. Sifting through the clothes, I looked at the price tags, and tried to decide what would be good to wear today. Today I was, after all, sixteen years old. I could drive now, and older boys always want a sixteen year old girl. Being fifteen years old is so childish. Basically, at sixteen you become a lady. I need to pick out clothes that define who I am, and let me stand out as being a lady. Something that gets me noticed. Noticed and loved.

  Standing in my closet makes me happy. Staring at my clothes always makes me smile. I have more clothes, and better clothes than anyone else. No one has as many clothing options as I do. My parents can be so retarded. Sometimes they try to tell me “no” when I want to go shopping. They act like we spend too much money on clothes. Nothing could be farther from the truth. Did they really expect me to wear any of these things twice? The thought of having someone see me wear something after I have already worn it once is just gross. When we are actually out shopping, they never told me no, so when I think they are acting selfish, I will pick out clothes that are far more expensive than others. I love spending money. When I am buying things, I feel like nothing else matters, like I am free. People respect me for who I am when I am buying things.

  Starting with the clothes on the end of my closet closest to my bed, I choose an outfit to wear. When I am done wearing my outfits, after they come home from the cleaners, I put them at the other end of the closet. The last time the closet had to be cleaned out I had seven trash bags of clothes that I sent to the trash. Cleaning out the closet is something I look forward to, because that means it is time to go shopping again. We always shop when we want to, but after I clean out the closet, I get to spend as much money as I can to try to fill it with new clothes again.

  After getting dressed and posting a photo on Twitter, I went downstairs. I had carefully picked an outfit that didn’t make me look fat. I weigh 110 pounds, but I look fat. When I post pictures on Twitter, people tell me I look good, and that I look skinny, but they can’t see me the way I can see myself. I can look so gross sometimes. To keep myself looking thin, I carefully watch my diet and exercise regularly.

  I checked the bottom of my shoes before I went down the stairs, but when I reached the bottom, I checked again to make sure that they didn’t have any stickers on them. Walking into the kitchen, I noticed that no one was in there. Wondering where everyone was, I looked out the window, and saw my parents and little sister in the front of the house, standing by the entrance. They were all looking toward the garage. They always complained that I took too long to get ready. Looking like this takes time. They were all so shallow, simple, and unable to truly understand what it is like to be sixteen, to try to find someone to love you. It was such a competition with all the other girls. My parents are so shallow. Frustrated, I grabbed my purse, and walked out into the driveway.

  My father and mother were standing together, and my little sister was beside them. When I got to where they were standing, I could see my father pointing to the end of driveway, in front of the garage. I turned and looked at where he was pointing, and that’s when I saw it for the first time.

  “Happy Birthday, Britney,” my father said, smiling at me as he squinted through his glasses. I hated his glasses. They made him look old and poor. I wished he would get new glasses. I looked down at his shoes, and he was wearing those ridiculous Cole Haan shoes he always wears to work, the ones with the tassels. Did he really expect me to go shopping with him if he was wearing those shoes? Oh my God.

  “Britney, that is yours, Happy Birthday, dear.” Motioning toward the garage, he held out his arms, palms up, like he was trying to push me to the end of the driveway.

  Walking toward my birthday gift, I couldn’t help but notice that it was white. White. Seriously? White? As I approached the end of the car, I noticed the round thing on the trunk. A blue and white symbol. Clearly not a Mercedes. Are you kidding me? They bought me a white BMW? Not that it wasn’t just disgusting that it was white, but a BMW? Poor people drove BMW’s and we were not poor. I felt the teary parts of my eyes swelling, and felt as if I was going to start to cry. This was sooooo not happening to me.
How would I drive to school on Monday, and face everyone if I were driving a BMW? And a white BMW at that? This could not be happening to me. I wanted to die.

  As they stood at the end of the drive and smiled at me, I tried not to cry. I reached into my purse, got my phone, and took a picture of the car. I opened my Twitter, and tweeted a picture of the car for everyone to see. It would be better if they all saw it now, and knew that I was embarrassed. It may save a terribly embarrassing day at school on Monday. I looked at my tweet:

  Sooooo not a #Mercedes. Happy Birthday Britney.

  Placing my phone back into my purse, I turned, looking at my parents. My father reached into his pocket and pulled out the keys, dangling them from his fingers, as if he were going to drop them in the driveway. “Do you like?” he asked. He began, with my mother and sister, to walk in my direction.

  “Here, take the keys. It is yours Britney,” he continued.

  “It’s white. And it’s a BMW. I wanted a Mercedes, father.” I explained as I walked toward them.

  “You do not appreciate the gift?” he asked.

  “Father, I appreciate the gift, yes. Thank you.” I wiped my eyes and tried to smile.

  As he handed me the keys, he held his arms out, opening them wide to give me a hug. Reluctantly, I gave him a hug. As I did, I began to softly cry. My father was so inconsiderate, and probably made me cry more than anyone else I know. Probably more than everyone else combined. He just didn’t understand. Being sixteen and being a girl was so impossible. Getting someone to love you is so impossible. Being happy is so impossible. Hugging him made me want to just die.

  Stepping back, I took the keys from his hand, and dropped them into my purse. “Can we go now?” I pleaded.

  “Do you wish to drive?” my father asked.

  The night before, I had been up until 4:00 am, updating my Twitter, Facebook, posting photos on Instagram, Snap Chat, and Tumblr, and updating videos on Vine and YouTube. “No, father, I am tired, and just care to ride.” I stated, attempting to wipe my eyes free of any tears.