Drama Deadly's First Accident

J.C. Chaplin By J.C. Chaplin, 2nd Jan 2015 | Follow this author | RSS Feed
Posted in Wikinut>Humour>Funny Stories

Teenage driving, revisited. My daughter shaved another five years from my life expectancy.

Here We Go

Teenage Driving Part Two – Drama Deadly's First Accident

You know how washing a car brings a sudden end to a drought? I believe that a similar philosophy holds true with car insurance. Exactly a week and a half after making our car insurance policy a smidgen more affordable for our teenage daughter (Drama Deadly), I got the call that I had been dreading and halfway expecting.

“Mom, I got into an accident.”

Please note that the following account of yesterday's events is told from my point of view, that being the point of view from the unintelligent, uninformed parent. Some of you may know me. Perhaps you can even relate to being me. I represent clueless, annoying parents who have experienced nothing in this life besides sucking air and occupying space. Duh.

“Are you alright? Are you hurt?” I asked over my daughter's frantic babbling.

“I'm fine but my car I don't know what happened oh my god my car Dad's gonna kill do you think -”

“Okay, where are you?” I had to cut her off or I would have been drawing Social Security benefits before she finished the story. Once I got her location out of her, I headed that way.

The responding police officer had to relocate the vehicles involved in the accident, so we gathered in a parking lot, which I took as a good sign. At least Drama's car was drive-able. After looking my daughter over for injury, and finding none, I began my fact-finding mission.

“Tell me what happened,” I said, and hoped for a reasonable explanation.

“Something was wrong with the tire,” replied Drama.

“What do you mean?”

“It wouldn't stop.”


“I had my foot on the brake, but I guess I wasn't pressing hard enough because the tire kept moving.”

At that moment it became crystal clear in my mind that the officer who rode with Drama during her driving test must have had his eyes closed, otherwise my child would not have a license. No other explanation made sense.

“I think what you mean is that your brain wasn't working right.”

A large black pickup truck pulled up and an also large, unhappy-looking man stepped out, folded his arms across his chest, struck a pose, and began to stare in our direction. In an attempt to keep things friendly-ish, I approached him and introduced myself as Drama Deadly's mother. My greeting was met with silence and more staring, so I came in from another angle.

“Are you okay?”


“Good. Is anyone in your truck injured?”

“Nope.” He turned his head for a quick spit on the parking lot.

We stood in silence.

“Okay, then. Good talk.” I nodded and returned to Drama.

“Was that guy just sitting at the yield sign when you hit him?”


“Honey, were your eyes open while you were driving?” I thought I saw her think for a second before answering.

“Uh, yeah.”

“And what were they looking at when you ran into Mr. Happy's new truck?” To this child, multitasking means breathing with both eyes open.

“I don't know. I might have been looking at the traffic, I guess.”

“You don't know what you were doing when you rear-ended a truck?”

“I was sorta spaced out, but then I snapped out of it when I hit the truck.”

I thought back to my pregnancy and wondered if there was mercury in all those tuna salad hoagies I craved.

“Uh huh. Okay, let's look at your car.”

“It's not bad,” said the one who's been driving for about six months.

I have felt bad for that innocent Nissan since the first time Drama pulled it into our driveway. After all, it was only a baby at two years old with about 20,000 on the odometer. On that day I memorized the “before” image of the shiny silver paint and smooth, dimple-free body, much like my own body before my daughter came along. You might say that Drama's car and I connected on a certain level.

Fast forward three months and take another look. At first glance, the damage to the front end appeared to be mild. However, like most wounds, you can't get the entire story by only looking at the surface. The front bumper and the right front fender appeared to have taken the hit. The busted grille smiled at me like a hockey player after an ice brawl. The top of the passenger side fender curled up and peeled back, away from the surprisingly intact headlight.

Later, once we were able to pry open the hood, we discovered the headlight, while still functional, to be entirely broken off and no longer secured to the car. Oh, and since the force of the impact pushed the fender back, the passenger side door cannot be opened without it rubbing against the damaged fender. But yeah, “not bad”. My plans for later included a couple of sedatives chased by a mug of hot chocolate, spiked Bailey's Irish Cream.

The police officer, bless him, kept his cool with my daughter, who had been less than remorseful. He could have given her a ticket that would done nasty things to her driving record and our insurance. Instead, because we had a common friend in the department, he gave her a lesser ticket. Once I got Drama off the phone with her boyfriend (whose insurance rates will not be going up), the officer motioned her over to his car, and handed her the ticket.

“Dude!” came out of my daughter's mouth when she read the ticket.

My own mouth fell open wide enough to throw a cat through it. Did she just call a police officer “Dude”? I thought I felt a blood vessel blow in my neck. My knees weakened and I pictured myself visiting my child at the slammer. Who was this kid? Did she think was a Kardashian? I looked at the clearly stunned officer and braced myself for his next move, taking a step back in case he popped her with a taser.

“Dude?” The young officer asked. “Do you want me to give you the bigger ticket? I can do that if you'd rather have it. I was trying to help you out, but I don't have to.”

I gave Drama's shin an unmistakable kick of encouragement.

“No, it's okay,” said Drama, and signed the ticket.

Before the officer left, I leaned down to him and quietly said, “If you should accidentally run her over on your way out, I'll testify for you.” Since he laughed, I guessed that he had heard that request from other parents of teenagers. I can't be the only parent shaking my head, convinced that putting my teenager's brain into a goat would cause the goat to run backward.

A text message exchange between Drama Deadly and myself took place this afternoon.

Me: Locked myself out of the house. Again. At Nana's, getting a key. Sigh.

Drama: How did I not die as a baby?

Me: Dang it. I got out of the car and the stupid key fell onto the driveway. I had it all along!

Drama: And you talk about other people not needing to reproduce.

Me: Yeah, well I'd think twice if I were you, too.

Drama: Mine (kids) will just need a driving class and maybe an anger management counselor.

Me: No comment.

Drama: It's all genetic.

What can I say, friends? Apples and trees.


Car Insurance, Driving, Driving Accidents, Humor, Parenting, Police, Teenagers

Meet the author

author avatar J.C. Chaplin
I am a caffeine addict, living in the southern US. I am a mother of four, and I write humor to avoid becoming a tower sniper. Visit my website at http://www.jillreesewriter.net

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author avatar Fern Mc Costigan
2nd Jan 2015 (#)

Awesome post and Happy New Year and a Prosperous 2015!

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author avatar micheal
2nd Jan 2015 (#)

great post thanks for the read

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