Guilt and Consequences

I drove out to the lovely Torrance Highway Patrol office this afternoon to pick up a copy of the official collision report regarding my recent traffic accident. The report, among other things, is a document of blame that exists to declare which driver was at fault. I was rear-ended on the freeway, completely blindsided, and was assured by everyone I spoke with afterwards that there was no way I could have avoided it. But for the last 3 weeks I've been obsessed with the possibility that I somehow did something wrong. A weird kind of guilt has festered and weighed on me in a completely ridiculous way. Even if I was at fault, somehow, it wouldn't really matter in the larger scheme of things. Nobody was hurt, everyone was insured, and surely if I had contributed to the collision in some way it wouldn't make me any less decent or valuable in the universe. It all has to do with some deep-rooted insecurity I have about my ability to function as an able-bodied, responsible adult in the world. I still see myself as an overgrown kid playing grown-up, wearing somebody else's leather shoes, using somebody else's disposable razor, depositing somebody else's checks in somebody else's bank account. I await the inevitable crack in the facade, the moment of unveiling when those close to me finally point and say "Who the fuck does this guy think he is? You're not fooling anybody, bub. Back to the kid's table." And I recognize that feeling to be as much wish-fulfillment as it is real insecurity. I don't want to be an adult! I don't want to have to think about credit card balances or cholesterol or living wills or ironed shirts or hotel reservations or any of that shit. I want to be at the kid's table, laughing until snot comes out of my nose and making fun of the grown-ups and sneaking a piece of pie before dinner. How the fuck should I know how to drive a car on the freeway? I don't have time for that shit. I've got branches to swing from.

But I am, as I heard someone say the other day, a grown-ass man. And I can take care of my shit. I'm not Fredo Corleone. I welcome my responsibilities, on an intellectual level, I want to honor them and I want to enjoy the life I have constructed for myself, because it is beautiful. But I also want to be able to shrug off the weight when I feel it pressing down on me, I want to keep it all in balance and *always* be able to take illicit joy in an afternoon alone at the movies or an inappropriate joke. I want perspective, in other words. Who the fuck doesn't?

Anyway the report absolved me completely. Party P-1 was at fault, and party P-2, yours truly, was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. I felt giddy when I read the report on the bench outside the office, I felt liberated. That's completely insane, I realize. But I kind of don't mind it. I'll take my liberation where I can find it, even if I have to invent oppression to get there.

The Highway Patrol office walls were filled with pictures of officers who were killed in the line of duty, with a brief description of how long they served and how they died. The picture above the collision report window was of a man who died in 1972, a year before I was born. He looked unbelievably young in his uniform, like a 15 year old kid dressed up as a cop for Halloween. The caption said he was killed when he responded to an accident call and arrived at the scene to find a horse trailer overturned, with three horses inside. The horses were injured and apparently going wild, and another officer was instructed to go inside the horse trailer and shoot them. The first bullet missed a horse, ricocheted off the trailer and struck the officer standing outside, killing him instantly.

I read it twice to make sure I understood the details. It's got to be one of the strangest, saddest, weirdest things I've ever heard about in my life. My elation at the absolution provided by the collision report was short-lived and tempered somehow by that photograph, and I keep imagining the scenario in my head. What happened after the guy got shot? Did they go back in and shoot all the horses? Did the horses get out and run down the freeway and get crushed by a semi? What happened to the other officer who fired the shot, how could he ever have gotten over that tragedy and gone on with his life? Did the guy have a wife, kids, parents? How did they react to the incredible circumstances of his death? Was it his it his first week on the job? Did he ever even really get to be a Highway Patrol Officer before that moment?

It doesn't matter if I think I'm a man or a child or a mongoose. The universe is deep and unknowable and harsh and beautiful. Until it isn't.