Happenstance

I've flown on planes probably hundreds of times without once experiencing any trouble or even any luggage damage. I've driven through eastern snowstorms and navigated through even more harrowing rainbursts on California freeways without incident. Yet this weekend I managed to have a car accident while eating a ham-and-bacon omelet. As I put my fork down I heard an announcement on the diner's PA system that an auto whose description matched mine had been in a collision. Rushing to the parking lot I saw that the front fender of my car had been badly scratched and the license plate smashed in, and a note left on my windshield stated "I hit your car. I'm sorry. Call me."

I managed to catch the perpetrator as she tried to slink into the diner. She was a neighborhood matron, about 70, and very apologetic. Rather than anger, my initial emotion was more consternation. This was a sedate parking lot with narrow lanes not conducive to fast cruising. Somehow, while she was coasting into her space, her car leapt over two concrete barriers between the rows and collided with mine. "I just don't get how you did this," I wondered aloud. She replied, "I guess I put my foot on the gas by mistake."

Fine. Guilt is not in question here, thanks to her written confession and the existence of several witnesses, including a man whose car she also nicked. I anticipate some inconvenience as I deal with insurance adjusters to have the front panel buffed and fixed and the license replaced, but as accidents go, this was pretty superficial. Her front fender suffered much more damage. Fortunately she was driving a Honda, a collision with which is the automotive equivalent of going three rounds with Dakota Fanning. The only beneficiaries will be the body shops with their ludicrous rates. And I should have no psychic repercussions because I was completely faultless and even magnanimous when dealing with the oafish woman.

But the moment did give me pause to reflect on the randomness of circumstance embodied by this kind of event. Earlier, when I was driving into the lot, I'd selected a different space in which to park, but my route was blocked by an approaching car, so my driving companion suggested I park in the fateful spot. I was reluctant because it was next to a dreaded SUV, but did so anyway. After the accident, my friend expressed some guilt over "talking me" into taking that spot. I will reassure him right now (and I suspect he is reading this) that he is also faultless; it was only because of the oncoming car that I ducked into, literally, the wrong place at the wrong time.

Being detached and philosophical (and uninjured) enabled me to place this incident in perspective. Two years ago another elderly driver had a similar "foot malfunction," but he was driving in a crowded farmer's market in Santa Monica and his acceleration fatally mowed down ten people--innocent patrons also blithely partaking of an afternoon meal. So how can I be bitter? Shit happens, as one of the wisest sayings goes. If the Wheel of Fortune is going to land on "Bankrupt" on occasion, it may as well be while I have very little to lose. If the odds of having an auto accident have caught up with me, I gladly accept this as my turn. If shit has to happen, let it be a tiny turd and not a cascade of diarrhea.

In everyday life, flukey occurrences happen so rarely that we don't ruminate much about the randomness of it all; we prefer to think we are in control, and to a certain extent we are. But we can do little to modify the acts of others. There was nothing really remarkable about the elements that led to my fender-bender that are not more easily apparent in the workings of a slot machine. To be rammed in a parking lot is probably less unusual that hitting a royal flush on a poker machine; both have happened to me. You pay your money, you park your car, you take your chances.