Give Me a Break, I Got Hit by a Car

In an effort to A) populate this blog with good writing, B) share some of my favorite works published elsewhere, C) maybe drum up some interest in starting a comedy writing workshop group because I miss the old writers meetings from when I worked on the Times New Roman, I am going to be publishing several of my old comedy pieces. Enjoy.

This piece was published in the June 7, 2006 issue of Boston's Weekly Dig.


Last week, I got hit by a car.

Don’t worry, I’m fine. I was walking to Northeastern from my apartment in Mission Hill, and I was going down Wigglesworth (teehee) Street when I saw the T. It was just sitting there, with its door open, saying, “Art! Come ride me! It’s not far to campus, but you might as well be sitting comfortably.” I considered the T’s offer, and decided that indeed I should sit comfortably, as sitting is one of my favorite things.

So I bolted across Wigglesworth (teehee) Street, careful to check to see if there were any cars coming, and sure enough, there were. However, in my haste to catch the T before it left, I performed my car-check only after I had already committed myself to a full-out sprint into the middle of the street.

I decided I could probably jump and let the oncoming car pass under me, à la Mario dodging one of those bullets with a face, but the car was too fast. I slid up the hood of the car, coming to a momentary stop on the windshield; then physics had its way with me, and I was deposited onto the street.

I did a quick mental once-over of my entire nervous system, and nothing was telling me: “Over here! This is where your death-inducing injury has occurred!” I was fine. Nothing was broken, nothing was fractured, nothing was bleeding. Only two parts of my body were remotely in pain: my Primary Impact Zone, the upper right-hand quadrant of my back where I hit the windshield, and my Secondary Impact Zone, my left shoulder where I hit the street.

Wait a minute. I ran into the middle of the street without looking both ways, got hit by a car (as I was warned would happen every day of elementary school ever), and then what? Nothing! What the hell!? I’ve had worse injuries falling off my bike. Onto a bed of pillows. Pillows that feed you candy somehow.

I’ve come up with a few possible explanations for this remarkable turn of events. First, it is possible that I am invincible; after all, I am a 21-year-old man. Second, it is possible that the driver was a puss and didn’t accelerate when he saw me run into the street, but instead slowed down (what a baby). Third, the car that hit me, a Toyota Prius, was probably so wussed-out—since it uses hybrid-electric power and a higher mixture of ethanol instead of burning only pure, delicious gasoline—that it couldn’t do any damage to anyone, ever. I mean, had I been hit by a Hummer or something of equal manliness (I’m kidding, I know there is nothing as manly as a Hummer), I would have been squashed like the pedestrian bug that I was.

It was probably a combination of these elements that allowed me to stand up, brush the dust off my pants, and head directly to my girlfriend’s apartment, where I proceeded to kick her ass at Monopoly (apparently, I was on a winning streak against cars that day). But damn it all if the T didn’t leave before I could catch it.