MADER'S 'BRANTS Car accidents, Insurance People and Con-Artists Part 1 February 21, 2005 - I had a car accident last Tuesday. My car was run over. That’s sounds like hyperbole but really it was run over. Let me paint you a picture. I had just finished dinner at my favorite hang and was heading home to get some work done. I pulled up to the first intersection to make a left turn and found myself behind a Ford F250 4x4 with lift kit. In short, a big freaking farm truck. Driven by a guy his wife and their kid. Not all at once, but you get the picture. After sitting at the light for a few minutes the wife decided she wanted to go to Wal-Mart across the street. This required that they change lanes. So the husband wanting to keep the little woman happy tried go straight instead of turning left. Sadly, the only way he could do that was by backing up. Of course being a jacked up pick up truck he could not see my little, teeny, tiny Honda Del Sol even though I was a car length behind him. So I’m sitting there, looking through my wind shield, watching the inevitable. I can’t back up because cars are coming from behind. I can’t go to the left or the right because of traffic. With one hand on the door latch, so I could abandon ship like a first class passenger on the Titanic, and the other laying on my horn. I cringe as his rear bumper rides up over my hood crunching it as his trailer hitch impregnates its self just right of center in the nose of my poor car. He jumped out of his truck I jumped out of my car we looked at each other said “aww fuck” and sighed. There was nothing we could do except get our cars out of the way of the intersection so we pulled over to a parking lot and went from there. I have never been in an accident before and neither had the other guy. No one gives you a manual for these kinds of situations. So like an idiot I make the one mistake we all make. I called my parents. I don’t care how old you are, your mom and dad will always be your mom and dad. All you want is some information about who to call first and they are worried about if you are all right. And once their fear of your emanate demise is allayed, the incriminations begin. What did you do? Was it your fault? And on and on and on. I’m fine. No, I’m not an idiot. Who the hell do I call? 911? Fine. Ever talk to a 911 operator? They are very even keeled, calm people. No emotion whatsoever. Trained professionals, skilled in handling crisis situations. Until you explain to her the accident itself. Imagine if you will a St. Bernard humping a Poodle. She laughed for a solid minute. So we wait. The tedium only broken by his parents showing up and shaking their heads in disgust. They talk to the daughter-in-law and shake their heads some more. Like I said, I don’t care who you are or how old you get. Parents are parents. An hour later we have filled out reports and exchanged information. It turns out that the guy that hit me was really pretty cool. Probably in part because we swapped dirty jokes while we waited and his wife looked on with a degree of irritation. He was honest about the whole thing with the police. Some people say honest folk are hard to find. That is not my experience. At least until I dealt with the insurance folk and everyone else. Next week the ambulance chasers. Later, Mader