In a Magazine Article Writing class I ultimately dropped because I didn't need the credit—and it was scheduled way too fucking early in the morning—we were given a set amount of time (20 minutes, I'm guessing ... but don't quote me on that) at the computers to tap out a quick scene emphasizing description. The subject we all ultimately had to adhere to is the title.
THE RESULT:
The first thing I do when I get into an automobile is immediately lock the door. It's not that I'm worried about being carjacked; it's just a habit I've developed since one memorable summer day when I was eight-years-old.
My mother was driving my sister and I back from the public pool in our white Chevy Nova. The car had aged poorly, showing hints of rust under the doors and beige leather interior with scattered rips and frayed stitching. Driving down the two-lane Route 25 that afternoon, I sat in the passenger seat with my still-wet navy blue trunks soaking into the beach towel underneath me. My sister, two years younger than me, complained from the seat behind me about the gust blowing her long, brown hair in her face.
I didn't wear a seat belt because the starchy fabric itched my bare chest. The pool was a short drive away, so my mother let it slide. Besides, it was treacherously humid that day, making the seats feel as though you were sitting on a hot plate. Even the plastic interior underneath my elbow resting on the door was burning.
Coming north, my mother signaled left when we saw the sign for our small neighborhood's convenience shop, appropriately called "The Little Store." With no oncoming traffic giving her reason to pause, Mom casually turned the wheel left. And as the car turned to go up the hill that led back to our neighborhood, that's when I felt the passenger door swing open. I must have placed all eighty or so pounds of my body weight against it, because I fell right out of the Nova and right onto the gravel along the side of the road. The small bits of stone stuck to my semi-naked body as I rolled down the hill and heard the car's brakes arrive at a screeching halt.
I just laid there on my stomach for a moment, not really sure of what had just happened. I cleared my nearly-white hair from my eyes as tears began to well up. My mother came down the hill, running towards me in her olive green sundress and flip-flops, screaming my name. I spit a small pebble out from my mouth and saw a drop of blood fall from my lower lip—or possibly my chin. There were a lot of small knicks and cuts all over my body.
On her knees beside me, my mother placed her left hand on my back. "Derek, Derek—are you okay?" she asked me, her words coming out with quick breaths of concern.
THE AFTERTHOUGHT:
No idea if it was actually a Nova, but I spent a few days recovering while my Grandma (bless her heart) nursed me back to health.
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