It died a gruesome, unnatural death (and yes, I'm OK, thanks for asking!). For almost ten years, it was the vehicle which enabled myself and some good friends to have some wild, wild times. Initially, Stella would use it to drive
Pauly to school. When little Pauly got all growed up, it would tandem with the Jeepster in wreaking havoc across Union County. From the Watchung Mountains to the abandoned
Overbrook Psychiatric Hospital, from Club Bene to the summer camp where Andre hooked up with some skanky chick in the back seat, and shuttling the likes of such horribly named bands as Technicolor Highway, Dawn's Promise, and The Special People Club. Paul probably has (and can remember) some way better stories, so I'll leave that to him.
You're probably wondering what happened, and so I can save myself a few explanations, I'll detail the events of Saturday, February 23rd for you here. The day began promisingly enough, a lovely breakfast and a "river view" with my lady friend at the legendary
Tom's Restaurant (apparently immortalized in the song "Tom's Diner" by Suzanne Vega, also the place I recently resolved to become a Soda Jerk after sampling the Cherry Lime Rickey and Vanilla Egg Cream sodas.) I had the crabcakes florentine and said vanilla egg cream, and life was grand. Next on the day's agenda was a trip to the movies for a matinee screening of Juno. Sitting at a red light, waiting to make a left turn, I glanced up at the rearview mirror. The next .5 seconds seemed more like 5 to 10 seconds.... I remember thinking, "wow, that car is going really fa----"... that's when, from pretty much from out of nowhere, a fucking fuckface who was driving way too fast on roads that were just a little bit too dangerous, hit me from behind, at a solid 40 MPH. I hit the car in front of me, the change dish exploded, sending nickels and quarters everywhere, and the smell of leaking fluids was pervasive. It was the first time I ever called 911.
The first thing I should note, is that when I got out of the car, the fucking fuckface that hit me was just kind of gawking at the damage. He didn't ask if everyone was all right, made no attempts to apologize. Just kinda stood there. I don't remember how long it took the cops to show up... my head was going a million miles an hour. I'd guess it's how someone might feel if they had gotten shot at, and missed. Except if you get shot at and missed, you generally aren't losing a valuable piece of property.
So the cops finally show up, the guy in front of me who I had hit is one of those shady cab-not-a-cab drivers. There is no damage to his tank of a taxi, and after a brief conversation with the police officer, of which he probably understood three words, he thinks the cop told him he can go. So he gets into his car and drives off... the cop flips out and jumps back in his cruiser and chases him down. So another 10 minutes or so later, we're finally back to square one with the cabbie re-assuming his position post-accident. While we're standing around, the passenger of the car that hit me is trying to convince me:
-to ask AAA if they can tow his car AND mine, since they don't have AAA.
-to send my car to his buddies' auto body shop.
I could feel rage building up inside me quickly, his lack of compassion and understanding that he is absolutely the last person on the planet I want to deal with right now could only be attributed to the possibility that he is :
-one of the biggest assholes on the planet
-completely clueless when it comes to Life In General
Obviously, the presence of police officers prevented me from losing my shit on this guy.
Later on, the accident investigator goes:
"You Willyard?"
"Yes sir." [hands me my license and documents]
"That's a hell of a name!"
Which is the first time anyone has referred to my last name being a "Hell of a name".
He then decreed the accident an "open and shut case". This cop won my heart.
A few moments after this, the driver who hit me was handcuffed for giving the officers a fake license.
Nearing the two-hour mark, the tow-truck operator shows up. He is sporting the remains of what was probably once a proud mullet and a severe lack of dental work. I mention I need to retrieve the contents of my trunk, as it contains valuable DJ equipment.
"Oh yeah??! I'm a DJ too!"
He then proceeds to remove his jacket, and then his shirt.
"Yeah man! Check out my tattoo!"
It is a tattoo of a squirrel manning a turntable. He mentions something about some DJ who once played for seven days and seven nights straight, and walks away to tow off the remains of the 1993 Honda Accord LX which has been my vehicle and friend for the past four years, but which has been a part of my life for almost 10. This one's for you, Honda.
This is my good friend, Peter Shea. Pete's a real fun guy, and by that, I mean he's a mushroom. But seriously, the kid is a legend. Here he is standing over some passed-out hipster douchebag at an old 56 Wyckoff party. I mean, look at this hipster scum: he's got a gold blazer on, sunglasses at night, and some sort of sash. 2003 was a good year for hipsters, they seemed to be popping up on every streetcorner, infesting parties like some demon spawn of cockroach. This one is kind of a Jim Morrison hipster, but obviously can't drink like Morrison, and definitely was not fun to hang out with. Then you have Pete Shea, the real fucking deal, standing over this doucebag in glorius triumph. You can't out-party Pete. Even if Pete has some slight hipster tendencies (Pete will acknowledge this), he is too bad-ass to be considered an actual hipster.
