The Day I Became Mortal Essay Research — страница 2

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far from campus. I really should have had better judgement than to ever allow myself in the poor condition of the Datsun B210 in the first place. Not so much the state that the Datsun was in but the combination of the Datsun and the driver who was about as experienced at driving automobiles as I was at calculus. Trevor had his license for about two weeks at this point. As the car rolled forward, I could almost hear the repentant clinking of the roller coaster I was on, about to embark over the first spine tingling hump of the track. Of course I didn’t know it yet, though. The car stalled a jolting death. Trevor was not an experienced driver and an even less experienced stick driver. It took a couple of tries for the engine to turn over again. But it finally did. And we were

off. Exiting the parking lot was always a big deal at Menlo-Atherton High School. It was routine to spin the tires if you were cool. And if you weren’t really cool, it was customary for anyone to spin the tires if the car in front of you did so. So, naturally as the car full of hot dogs in front of us in the real nice ‘68’ Mustang spun the tires, Trevor was simply doing his duty as a high school male with a car. An excellent showing of raw recklessness and abuse of a quickly diminishing car was performed. We did a perfect fishtail and swung the vehicle back around into control. As pavement securely gripped the tires, a sigh of relief flustered throughout Scott and my own hearts. But Trevor wasn’t done yet. Trevor made a decision to make an immediate right after exiting

the parking lot, onto a street that takes longer to get to Scott’s house, but is still clearly visible from the parking lot. The exhibition of speed was not over with. Just about the second the tires regained their composure on the road, Trevor stuck his foot into it and hit the corner with a vengence. Luckily for the three of us there was a lot of loose gravel on the beginning section of this road, causing us to lay the car out sideways across and into the other lane of Arlington. Trevor was still in somewhat control of the vehicle until his mexican pizza began to slide along the dashboard, hurdling toward his open window. I saw pure panic brought forth in Trevor’s face as the last quadrant of his lunch flashed before his very eyes. The wheel was abandoned and Trevor made a

gallant stab at the precious food. The daring rescue was a complete success. The pizza was safe and sound. A little shook up from the viciously primitive grab Trevor made, but all the same it was OK. Meanwhile, the car, now completely out of control, made our hearts arise from their solitude of slumber, to encounter the merciful sensation of adrenaline. Scott, in life saving like fashion, grabbed the steering wheel from the passenger’s seat and slung it hard to the right, naturally helping the group’s mutual feelings deep in our hearts of secretly yearning to not hit the Oak tree dead in front of us! Now finally realizing the importance of the recent events, Trevor drops the now meaningless Taco Bell snack and regains full command over our death vessel. An over correction of

the steering wheel was the next logical thing to happen. However the violent circling of the wheel did in fact keep us from hitting the next certain death obstacle, a No Parking sign. Throughout the whole ten seconds of pure terror that had just past, quick thinking Scott, somehow gets it on his mind that there should be no good reason for this crazy ride to be continuing. Why hasn’t it stopped by now? So by briefly checking the pedals, Scott deciphered that the whole reason that our lives were still on the line was because Trevor’s inexperienced foot was cold posted against the floor of the car, pinning the exhausted gas pedal down with it. “Get your foot off of the gas you idiot!” screamed Scott. There was no reply from Trevor. Just the screaming of his tires. And the

journey down Arlington continued. Now embarking into the left-hand side of the road for the second time, we make our first contact with the reality of a real car crash. Trevor slides the car through the dirt on the wrong side of the road, putting it up against a bush at thirty miles an hour. (We later estimated.) Branches from the bush reached in like they were screaming young teenage fans with sharp hands and Trevor was Michael Jackson. Not feeling a thing on his scratched face, and now so far out of control that a picture of us was put into Webster’s 1999 edition under reckless. Following our destined path back across over to the right hand side of the road, we jack knifed, sliding semi towards the other side of the road, Trevor turned us completely around and began to lay us