The WonderTruck earns its name

Adventuring Rule #1: Adventures are not always fun.

     I was running errands around my hometown in my dad's Chevy Silverado, singing along to country music. It's a rule in the WonderTruck. Despite the enthusiastic singing with the windows down, I am a cautious driver. The speed limit is a limit, seat belts are not negotiable, and I brake on yellow lights. It may take twice as long to get somewhere, but I can promise to get there safe. Except for this one time.

     Maybe I began to slow down too early, nearly a block away from the red stoplight. Maybe the man driving the Chevy Lumina behind me was following just a touch too close when he changed his radio station. Either way, I couldn't control my screams when I felt the impact of his front end slamming into my bumper.   Somehow both vehicles came to a stop. A woman in a dark sweatshirt and her two teenage children braved two lanes of traffic to come to my aid. She pulled open my door and stared at me with concern. "My name's Sharon, and you look young and scared. Is there someone we can call for you?"

     Between sobs I choked out my parent's names and phone number. The woman's daughter made the call on her cell phone while the son phoned the police, then whipped out a digital camera to take photos of the scene. Another man walked over from a nearby parking lot and introduced himself as an off-duty paramedic. I didn't catch his name, but I was grateful to latch on to his questions and directions while I regained my senses. He checked over the driver of the Lumina and guided us both out of the roadway and onto the sidewalk. The tears started again when I saw the way the smaller car had crunched and curled under the WonderTruck's rear bumper. The other driver approached me, apologizing over and over, insisting he only looked down at his radio for a second. "Why were you going so slow? Why were you stopped in the middle of the road?" he demanded. It seemed rude to insist that the light was red and I was obeying conventional traffic laws, so instead I tried to calm myself, saying only that I wanted to wait for the police and my dad to show up.

     Lodi's finest arrived within minutes. A short, uniformed man with a gleaming badge that read Lt. Ruiz asked me if I was able to move my vehicle. Part of me wanted to stay frozen on the concrete leaning against a telephone pole for support until my dad appeared to take charge. But I knew that as an adult, this was my responsibility. Back in the WonderTruck, I disarmed the hazard lights, put it in gear and slowly pressed the accelerator. Nothing happened. It felt as though my emergency brake was engaged. I gave it a bit more gas and felt nauseous at the sound of the bumper separating from the Lumina's ruined hood.

     That was my breaking point. I needed my dad and I needed him now. The timing was perfect: just as I turned toward the closest side street, he pulled up, leaped out and guided me to a spot by the curb with airplane-landing-style gestures. I wasn't out of the driver's seat before he was right there with a hug and a flannel-covered shoulder. The rest of the day was a blur of questions and insurance and an achy head and back that I refused to admit until the pain forced me to the emergency room later that night.

    Congratulations, Chevy Lumina driver. With one small change in your choice of radio station, you have wrecked your car, caused surface damage to the WonderTruck, given me whiplash and a concussion, and forced me to miss two shifts at the library as well as a weekend of work on the school newspaper. I hope you really hated that song you were listening to.