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The story of a teen, a treasured Jeep, and a wreckTue, 01/06/2009 - 4:25pm
By: Letters to the ...
An open letter to the driver of a white minivan: My name is Michael Lauden II, and I have resided in Peachtree City since June 2006, and the first six months here were amazing. When you walk into a store, people walking by will say, “Hey, how are you?” as opposed to “Get out of my way.” People here are genuinely kind and for the most part incredibly polite. However, my story for you is on a different note. I am a mechanic at one of the golf cart repair shops here in Peachtree City, and I just graduated high school early by switching to a satellite campus where I could do my work when it was convenient for me and still be extremely involved as a guitar player in one of Peachtree City’s churches. I work full-time through the dreaded heat and the blistering cold, and this is where my story begins. I saved up every single one of my paychecks and finally bought my first car. I saved up from April all the way through Oct. 30 and finally bought my Jeep Grand Cherokee from my close friend and boss. The Jeep was finally mine. It was probably the best thing I have ever owned, and, boy, I babied that thing. Now when I say I babied my car, I actually meant I drove it like it was made out of glass. I would drive in the slow right-hand lanes, never going above the speed limit. I would always come to a complete stop, and I would always wait my turn at the variety of different non-traffic-lit intersections here in the PTC. My family would even make fun of me and call me “the little old man” for how immaculate I would keep the car and how cautiously I would drive it. This nickname, however, was short-lived. On Dec. 26, 2008, at around 6 p.m., I was driving to The Avenue with one of my close friends that I played with in the local worship band. And because of the construction of the brand-new long medians on Ga. Highway 74 (with no gaps to turn into The Avenue), we turned off Hwy. 74 onto Hwy. 54 to use the Marketplace Road that goes into The Avenue by Books A Million. Sheets of cold rain were falling on my windshield, and the night enveloped our car. We missed the green arrow, and since the lights are on a terrible timing system, we had to wait for oncoming traffic to slow. I made my approach behind a car that was turning left, and also mirrored a larger SUV turning the opposite direction from me. He moved out of the way and I could see no traffic over the hill that is inconveniently right in front of the turning lane. I stepped on my gas hard, just in case, and eased my way across the wet blacktop. Just then, a white minivan came flying down the far right-hand lane. The nose of my car had just barely left the intersection. There was no squealing of brakes, no swerving into the two completely open left-hand lanes of the minivan. Nothing. The car came. I saw the car coming; there might have been two or three seconds where I sat there, and those seconds felt like hours. Slam. I was sitting in my brand new Jeep, t-boned. Shocked. My neck hurt a little but I was more worried about my best friend who was sitting in the passenger seat on the side of impact. I made sure we were okay and I flashed my lights and turned on my warning signals to signal the driver to follow the victim into The Avenue. But the minivan pulled off in the other direction. My friend was stuck in the car while I tried to budge open the door that was jammed in. There was a 4-inch gap between the door and the body on the top that let the downfall of rain fall onto my pristine interior. He climbed out the back. There was thankfully a witness who walked me through what to do. She was an employee at Books A Million and helped me calm down and told me that the van had hit me and then ran. I owe her so much; she helped me so much, and if you are reading this, God bless you. Our reasoning of the hit and run seemed feasible for this was their fault. My dad was thankfully there to help me receive a three-point, $243 ticket from the lovely PTC Police for “failing to yield to oncoming traffic.” Now, sure, that does sound rather correct. But keep in mind the medium traffic level described on my bright yellow ticket: the darkness and the rain, and not only this, but the hill right in front of the intersection. I assume that there is enough time to reach The Avenue from that turning lane when a car is on top of the hill, but since I was slammed, I have to also assume that they hadn’t slowed down from the 55 mph speed limit that is right before The Avenue (she could have been going anywhere from the 55 mph on Hwy. 54 to the 70 mph that traffic goes while they whizz by me right and left. While I do take responsibility for my actions, and while I will pay for my ticket, and go to traffic school, I am very upset. The door was the least of the problems: the car sits at the body shop with a completely bent frame. The car is totaled. Ruined. And I will never see it again. I just have one question for the editor of this paper, in which lies the point of this entire letter. Would I still have received the ticket if I had short hair like I did this summer? If I wasn’t a teenager wearing tight pants and TOMS shoes? If I didn’t have tattoos? if I wasn’t with a friend dressed in thrift store attire? What if, let’s say, I was a woman with her child? And what if when I first asked if they were OK, the fireman replied, “Yes, they are fine.” Then a short 15 minutes later I asked again and he said, “They just went into the ambulance.” Now, don’t take this the wrong way — and if the other driver or her daughter was hurt, I apologize and I feel terrible for hurting you and for saying this — but in court, who do you think would win if both points had the same amount of validity: a teenager covered in tattoos and piercings, or a woman with her daughter who had to go in the ambulance. All I want to know is an answer from the other driver (whose name will remain omitted) and I will publicly ask her here: When you lie like that against someone you don’t know, and for that matter would probably never have met, does it make you sick to your stomach? Did you sleep that night? Did you even remotely feel like you should’ve handled the situation differently? I saved up for five months to get that car. I drove it like it was my baby. And now I have to take time off of practicing worship for my God, Jesus Christ, so I can get a point taken off my license at traffic school or so I can put a week’s worth of pay into the ticket that you deserve. And for what? So you can get out of doing the same? Why can’t people just tell the truth? I am 17 years old and if I can take responsibility for MY actions, then why can’t a middle-aged woman? Michael Lauden II michael.lauden@yahoo.com login to post comments |