Dear Joan Jetta, I Hardly Knew Ye

A blogging bud has been test driving VW Jettas, and it has made me all nostalgic for my first car. My first two cars, actually. I got a brand-spankin'-new white Jetta, which I named Joan, in May of my junior year in high school. I had only recently passed my driver's test after nearly a year of trying (long story), and I just loved that car. I pampered her with regular washings, frequent oil changes, and careful, defensive driving, which came in handy the night I was driving home to my freshman dorm and that BITCH pulled right in front of me and slammed on her brakes in a no-turn lane just so she could get her eat on at Jack-in-the-Crack. Of course, I got the ticket because I hit her from behind, but all the drunk a-holes who witnessed the collision as they spilled out of Hole in the Wall were totally on my side.

After Ms. Joan got all fixed up, we were cool for about two years. And then one day, I was driving down The Drag, minding my own GD beeswax, when I saw this hippy-poser chick come beebopping out of Hasting's on the other side of the street and pull right out into oncoming traffic just as I was passing her, going the other way. The first person in said oncoming traffic was an Asian dude on a motorcycle, whom she totally did not see because she didn't even look, and at the moment of impact, I was right in the line of fire. I swear it all happened in slow motion, and it was like I knew what was going to happen because I totally saw it coming. What I didn't count on was my sunroof being open and me seeing the Asian dude FLYING over my car, sans helmet and motorcycle. I just knew he was going to land in my passenger's seat, so I braced for the impact, and when the dust settled, and I opened my eyes, he was STANDING right behind my car, hands on his hips, surveying the damage to his bike. And, God bless him, he was still wearing his backpack.

I have no idea how the hell he didn't end up smeared all over the street, but after he did whatever aerial Ninja move that probably saved his life, I think he went into shock because he just started hauling ASS down The Drag. There were a lot of people around because it was right in the middle of the day, right between classes, so some dudes tackled him and pulled him over to the sidewalk to try and calm him down. In the meantime, Groovy Girl had driven off, and I was out of my car, muttering, "I am NOT paying for this!" There was a huge dent in the driver's side door, and the front tire was flat, but other than that, Joan fared pretty well. Or so I thought. I just slammed the door and stomped over to the sidewalk to call the friends I was supposed to be meeting in 10 minutes. A bunch of people came up and said they would be witnesses for me because it was all Groovy Girl's fault and she took off and that Asian dude is freaking out and somebody already called the cops and yadda yadda yadda. So I just sat on the curb, mad as HELL, and waited for the cops to show up. And they did. Two of them. On horseback.

By that point, a photographer from The Daily Texan was there taking pictures, some emergency personnel were tending to the Asian dude, and every five seconds, some dumbass would come up to me and ask what happened. One of the cops started to take my statement, while the other one, and his horse, were out in the middle of the street, trying to pick up the various pieces the motorcycle ended up in, during which exercise, the horse proceeded to crap all over the street. HUGE. Shortly thereafter, Groovy Girl shows back up, her mascara running out from under her faux John Lennon sunglasses, and the crowd quickly unloaded on her. She tried to apologize to me, but I was done with the whole thing, so I politely told her, "This is all your fault, and I'm not fucking paying for it." Then I sat down on the curb and started crying. Big baby.

My friends got there a few minutes later and formed a human shield around me to keep the dumbass question-askers at bay while the cops surveyed the damage to Joan. While she didn't look too bad, I told them I still wanted her towed somewhere to get checked out and to get a new tire, which was a good thing since it turned out that the front axle was bent like an "L," and I would have been stuck driving around in circles like a friggin' circus clown. So yeah, she was not quite four years old, had less than 40K miles on her, and she was totaled. Gone too soon. After that, I got a new red Jetta, which I named Ruby, but the love was never quite the same between us. I really think Joan cast some kind of voodoo spell on her, because she had quite a few "issues," and I nearly ran her into the ground while trying to learn to drive a stick.

The literal punchline to the whole affair came just as I was finally cleared to leave the scene. I told my friends that if one more person asked me what happened, I was going to lose my shit. So here comes your boyfriend, with a cast on his arm, natch, justa shuckin' and jivin' down the street. And I knew, just KNEW, he was going to be the one. As he got closer, he kept looking back and forth between me, my car, the motorcycle, the horse, the Asian dude, and Groovy girl, clearly trying to put it all together. Finally, he stopped right in front of me, took one last look around, and said, "Where'd the horseshit come from?"

Have I mentioned how much I love this GD town?