Rainy Night on the Highway

I confess I’m not the best of drivers and I’ve had my share of accidents,  and have also taken some blame when I wasn’t even behind the wheel.  (See Fender Bender,  and The Chain Letter and the Fender Bender)

Back in the late 60s I was working in a public library and my schedule included a few late nights each month.  I had a 30 minute highway commute and normally I didn’t mind the drive,  but one dark night as I pulled out of the library parking lot to head home it started to rain heavily.

Now one big perk of being a librarian is that you get first dibs on the new books when they arrive,  and that day I had gotten hold of Ira Levin’s new novel Rosemary’s Baby.  Although not a horror fan,  I was intrigued by the hype and anxious to read it.  In fact as I got into my car I had the book in my hand and I put it down on the passenger seat.

By the time I got to the highway the rain was coming down in buckets,  and I soon spotted what was obviously a multi-vehicle collision up ahead with cars and police and an ambulance spanning two or three of the opposing lanes.  As drivers rubber-necked to see the accident,  the traffic on my side of the highway slowed to a crawl,   and it seemed a good time for me to sneak a look at a few pages of Rosemary’s Baby.

Then,  you guessed it – the roadway was wet and my car was still in gear,  and while my eyes were on the book I rear-ended the car ahead of me.

So there we were – cop cars diverting traffic around us as we exchanged insurance information in the pouring rain,  and me thanking my lucky stars no one was hurt,  especially the three little kids in the back seat of the other car.

Despite a badly damaged front end,  my car was drivable and I made it home,  both me and the car in one piece,  although the front bumper was hanging on for dear life.

And so that rainy night on the highway I learned an important and very costly lesson.  Now I read only at red lights,  and I try to remember to put the car in park.

– Dana Susan Lehrman

We didn't think too much of it; at least, I didn't think much of it until ...
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One balmy night, the full moon high, I walk into town, flip-flops slapping softly, and grab a seat on the patio at the local watering hole, the Tahiti Nui, where sits Shelley, my new drinking buddy.

Halfway through our second or maybe third drink, up walks a guy she knows, Mike, who has a cute friend I’ve not seen before. He’s tall and slender with long dark hair and warm brown eyes. The four of us sit at a table and by closing time Mr. Cute is playing footsie with me under the table, leaning in close to talk to me in a low, slow voice. His sweet smoky scent, that mixture of booze and cigarettes, is, as always, an aphrodisiac. He asks me to come home with him, but I’ve turned a new leaf. Instead, I tell him where he can find me on Saturday—my usual weekend hangout, the beach at Pavilions.

In the meantime, I mention meeting him to a couple friends.

“Oh, him,” one of them snickers, “the Kona gigolo.”

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“Never mind, you’ll find out,” she shrugs.

I’m surprised when he actually shows up on Saturday. We wade into the shore break and he splashes me, teases me, tries to get me to go underwater. I don’t, but he does, diving and surfacing and looking for all the world like a frolicking seal, hair slicked back, long dark eyelashes, water dripping down his face. I am smitten. I already feel like I know him, even that I already love him.

I’m glad I listened to my intuition instead of gossip. Years later, we were still together in a loving, reciprocally warm, and committed relationship. It didn’t work out in the end, but for reasons unrelated to age, gender, or finance.

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RetroFlash300 / 300 words (Just made it up!)