The Accident, The Aftermath

I am not sure how I am. My shoulder was sore the day of the accident. It is ok now. I realized the next day, there was a sore spot on the side of my head. It is ok today. My neck was fine the day of the accident. Now, it has some soreness. I'll give it a couple of days. After that, I go so the people I avoid at all costs: doctors. Have them guess at whether I'm broken or fixable.

My car may be dead. The insurance company is figuring that out now. At their own pace. Even if my car is fixed, it's unsellable. The frame was clearly fucked. No one should ever buy a car with a fucked frame. Who knows what else is wrong with her. She's been my car for six years. Never a problem. And here I am hoping she's dead. Because if she is, she's scrap, I get a check and a new car. Not a refurbished car that is shade of her old self, destined to be run into the ground. I am shallow.

As I mentioned in an earlier post, I went to the Sixth District D.C. police station to get the traffic accident report.

When I arrived, there were two people in front of me. One woman was being assisted by the desk officer. They were paging through paper desk logs looking for a lost property incident number.

"When did you say the loss happened?" the desk officer asked.

"June 7." the woman said.

"Nothing here for June 7."

"Maybe it was September 23," the woman replied.

This went on for ten minutes. With changing dates. Finally, the desk officer asked the man in front of me what he wanted.

"Hey, baby, I'm Ken Bell. I am here for the files."

She handed him some files on the desk. He went through them for some time tsking detailed notes.

"What do you want?" the desk officer asked me.

"An accident report from yesterday."

"Go have a seat. You need to wait." The desk officer went back to searching in vain for the woman's loss report number.

"Maybe Decmber 12?" the woman said. They searched. I waited. For a while.

I sat for some time. Then I got up and paced. Finally, an officer from sitting in a bullpen behind the main desk came up.

"Can I help you, sir?" he asked.

"Yeah. I just need a copy of an accident report. Here's the number."

He went to the same files the Ken Bell had been looking at. He made copies of a report and handed it to me. Time elapsed: three minutes.

When I got home that night, I had many messages. One had a familiar voice.

"Hello, Mr. K. I am Ken Bell. A, uh, accident investigator from D.C. You may be hurt from the accident you were involved in. I know people who can help you. You may be wondering about your options. I know lawyers who can help you. Mr. K, you are not alone. I can help you."