Ken and I were driving home last night with my cousin, Bryan, from the MSU football game, cruising down the expressway, when some guy came out of nowhere and side-swiped us. He just veering right into our lane and tore of the driver's side mirror on my brand new Envoy and kept right now going.
My brand new Envoy. The one I've had for less than 2 weeks. The really pretty new white one that I practically just drove home from the dealer. Yeah, that one.
Ken sped up to catch the guy, honking and flashing his lights, but the guy was going over 100-miles an hour, weaving in and out of traffic to lose us. I'm white-knuckling the dashboard, yelling at Ken, "That son of a bitch! Can you see his license plate? Fuckmotherfuckingfuck!".
My poor cousin. He had to learn the hard way that his supposedly good-natured cousin has the mouth of a truck driver when she's pissed off. Or the mouth of Samuel L. Jackson, perhaps.
Finally we get his plate number and give up, deciding to call the police and have his drunk-ass hauled into jail and dealt with in the proper manner. The dispatcher tells me that they will put an APB out right away, and that we should come into the station to file a police report. "Absolutely! We'll be there as soon as we can!", I tell him, picturing the wheels of justice turning already.
By the time we drop off Bryan, grab some food for dinner, and head into the police station it's been almost and hour and a half. I'm picturing him already caught by the police, sitting in the cell at the station, miserable and alone, where I can taunt him for thinking he could get away from us. Or else, the police and I will have a conspiratorial chat about the dangers of drunk driving and the beauty of the criminal system.
I mean, it's like a really big deal to drive away from the scene of an accident, right?
Yeah, right. The police at the station patiently listened to our account of the evening's events. They had us fill out a stack of forms and give them copies of our driver's licenses. They confirmed the make an model of the SUV that hit us with a quick look-up of his license plate number that we had so diligently written down, and, oh, ha ha! he must have been on his way home judging by the direction he was headed when we last saw him.
The cop looks at me, smiles, and says, "So, what happens now ... ". I'm figuring they're going to send out like 4 cop cars to surround his house, throw a can of tear gas in his window, and drag his ass in to jail. ... "is that we are going to send him a letter. Which he has 10 days to respond to. "
OK, but then they issue a warrant for his arrest, right?
"If he does not call or come in to the station within that time," (for this part he actually rises out of his seat and leans toward me, like this is when he means business), "then we will send him a second letter."
What? Are you kidding me? A second letter? Just in case the problem was that the post office screwed up and he didn't receive the first one?
"And then what?", I ask him, totally dumb-founded at this point. "Well, if he still doesn't respond, then it will go on his permanent record".
Oh good. Because he seemed like someone who really cared about his permanent record.
Revenge is sweet.
So I guess the moral of the story is, if you drive drunk and you hit someone/something/some person, just keep driving. In fact, go home! Or even better, go back out to the bar and drink some more!
But just watch out for the strongly worded letter that will be arriving in your mailbox any day now.