Now that I look back on it as I sit in this uncomfortable plastic chair in the emergency room, it does seem very poorly thought out. I mean, if you're going to steal a car why would you leave any identifying evidence behind? Say like, your own car-or in actuality your dad's brand new black-on-black sports utility vehicle. Hmm,maybe it was Marty's stolen bottle of top grade vodka that impaired my judgment, I had to have ingested at least half of the contents of that cool, slick glass container. Bad idea?
"Randy? Randy!" Great,my mother's storming towards me like a twister with Lawrence (my stepdad,not the guy with the newly acquired suv I borrowed) trailing behind her in the fashion of a confused puppy. "What the hell happened to you Randy?"
"I illegally drank stolen alcohol,stole a motor vehicle,and crashed it. Oh-and I think liquor works as a painkiller,because my head doesn't hurt at all."
"What happened to your head?" Lawrence asks,gesturing at the rolled up t-shirt I'm using to soak up the blood from a well-sized gash spanning the left side of my forehead.
"When the car made contact with the brick facade of the convenience store, the airbag was kinda slow coming out-so my skull slammed-quite violently-onto the steering wheel." I'm shivering now since I was forced to use my shirt as a bandage. Why the hell is it so damn cold in the hospital anyway? Are they trying to cryogenically preserve the patients until doctors are available?
"Randall!" Lovely,here comes Dad,even stormier than Mom. "You take my car without permission,smash it into a seven-eleven,and then have the nerve to have the hospital call me at three in the goddamn morning! You unthoughtful little sh-"
"Greg, maybe you should lower your voice and reduce your usage of profanity." Lawrence weakly suggests.
"Shut your damn mouth Larry,it's my son and I'll yell at him until I go hoarse if I want to." Lawrence sinks into a chair beside me,takes out his reading glasses,and begins studying a pamphlet on diabetes.Hmm,I can't wait for the day that he finally snaps and shoots the mailman.
I can imagine it now,he'll brandish one of those nifty handguns that is the cornerstone of Hollywood action flicks and blast the guy for knocking over his recycling for the hundredth time.
"Where is my car Randall?" Dad demands,his eyes bursting out of the sockets,his voice lowered but sharper than a machete.
"Uh-gee-somewhere in the burbs about an hour from here. And I'm okay by the way,just a minor concussion,thanks for asking."
"I need to ask? You're talking and being the smartass you always are.Now about the car,how bad is the damage?"
"Excuse me," a cop in uniform taps Mom on the shoulder,"is there a Gregory Parkins here? A red Miata was reported stolen and an suv belonging to a Gregory Parkins was at the site."
"Oh-Dad-it wasn't your car that I crashed." I stupidly grin and scratch my chest as he connects the dots.
"That's it! You're a thief, a delinquent-," blah,blah,blah. He jumps up and down,tears at his hair, and begins constructing sentences consisting entirely of profanities.Lawrence shrinks deeper into his chair.
"When you're finished here," the cop informs our little dysfunctional group ,"I'm going to have to escort you guys to the station."
I pluck Lawrence's sweater from his lap,pull it on,close my eyes, and wait to be called in by the nurse. This is going to be a long night.
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