So, last Monday, September 13 at 1:38pm Pacific Standard Time, my phone rings. RING RING! It's my beautiful little boy (yeah, he's 18 but he's still my little boy). Mom, he says, I need you to come down to right past the freeway." Just as I'm thinking he's going to tell me he got a flat tire on his bike on his way home from school (I had told him he needed to put air in his rear tire) and doesn't want to push it the final 150 feet home, he says, "I JUST GOT HIT BY A CAR and the police are on their way." And I'm all "WHAT THE EFF?!?!?" and he tells me he's the victim of a hit-and-run and I'm all "WHAT THE EFF?!?!?" and I don't know whether to run to the scene of the accident or drive and I elect to drive, although I probably would have got there faster by running (don't laugh; I actually CAN run).
So I turn the corner from our house and I see fire trucks and paramedics and police cars, all with lights a-flashing and I'm thinking to myself, "Cheezus Christ what's next with this kid?" what with his broken knee and then injuring his shoulder and now he gets HIT BY A CAR.
A car that decided not to stop for a) the Stop Sign and 2) the 6' tall blond teenager on the Schwinn beach cruiser that was in the middle of the crosswalk. I mean, c'mon, it's not like Kevin is easy to overlook, especially when he's IN THE MIDDLE OF THE CROSSWALK fercryinoutloud.
So the lady in the car t-bones Kevin, he flies through the air and lands on the hood of her car. He falls off the hood onto the pavement and yells, "WHAT THE EFF?!?!?" (Note: neither of us actually said, "EFF;" we said the whole word). The driver takes that opportunity to hit the accelerator, runs over the bike still laying in the street and takes off down the road like a bat outta hell, with the bike trapped under her car and being dragged like roadkill if roadkill was made out of metal and caused smoke and sparks to fly like something out of a fireworks display. Kevin said it was really something seeing that happen. Something BAD.
There was another car at the stop sign and when Kevin got hit, the passenger jumped out to assist Kevin while her husband took off after the culprit. The bad news is, he didn't catch the driver; the good news is, he got the complete license plate AND retrieved the bike, which was about 1/2 mile away from the accident scene. Looking like bicycle roadkill.
The handlebars were actually ground down to wafer-thin:
And one of the pedals was torn off and scorched:
At the time of the accident, the police asked Kevin if he would be able to identify the driver and he said, "considering I was sprawled on her hood, staring at her through the windshield, I'm pretty sure that won't be a problem." And they asked him if he would want to press charges and that answer was pretty much a "No shit, Sherlock" although that's not a direct quote.
Luckily, our local police department has been right on top of the case. Oh. Wait. Scratch that. We have heard absolutely NOTHING despite my calling the department multiple times. The only information we received was at the scene of the accident when the license number was ran through the system and indicated the car was registered to a business in Gardena, which is several miles north of Long Beach. And that's all we know. We've received no accident report, no calls for Kevin to come down and identify a suspect, no calls from the driver's insurance company, if they even have one. For all we know, the driver, a middle-aged female, hightailed it to Canada to avoid arrest.
We don't want to have to call Larry H. Parker but it may be necessary if we don't get some answers here.
So that's what's going on in my neck of the woods. And one of the reasons I haven't been entertaining my 3 followers with my views and outlooks on Life lately. And because the creativity well just isn't producing and also too, I've been lazy.
I'll keep you posted. And try to start producing my usual witty and profound views to keep you entertained and coming back for more.