An Ounce of Prevention

For the third time in my life, I have had a car accident. Fortunately, I have never been in the car during these accidents. My car has always been parked and I have been somewhere else usually within a five to ten mile radius. This Saturday was no different. While grocery shopping with my friend, we received the call. The whispery feminine voice relayed broken tones, "Uhhh what color is your friend's car? . . . .Oh here are the police." We left our cart mid-aisle and returned to the house to find a large moving van a top the driver's side of the SUV. This scenario had blocked an entire city street and neighbors from surrounding blocks circled to offer assistance, prayers and green bean casseroles.

Upon seeing the crash I could think of Estelle's voice inquiring one of her most pivotal concerns:

Do you have on clean underwear?

Estelle is obsessed with cleanliness and presentation. She has built an empire around these two ways of being. No one sets a table like Estelle. Her bathrooms are more inviting than most people's dens. Her home is a peaceful and welcoming sensation of sight, sound and smell. The detail of her appearance is immaculate with the blending of perfectly matched shoes, pocketbooks and scarves. I have personally witnessed her housekeeper ironing her slips, camisoles and other under garments that I cannot mention in mixed company. All this says to the world "This is a place of solace and order." When everything seems crazy, going to Estelle's makes it all right and you know that this stalwart is solid and unmoved to its very foundation, literally.

Thus her adage of prevention, Always wear clean underwear , is more preparation. Just in case I am in an accident that will require the jaws of life to disembowel my car and paramedics to remove my gnarled body from the scene, my pristine undergarments will announce to all medical personnel, "this boy has good home training, treat him well." I am positive doctors and nurses will stand amazed at the starched creases on my hip bones and comment, "this gentile son of the confederacy must be critical to the fate of all humanity." Another may comment, "Look, his underwear is from Neiman Marcus, he must be good people."

Taking a deep breath, I walked through Saturday's crowd towards the behemoth at rest on my car. On the back side of the moving van was a robust middle-aged man with his hands over his head moaning. His sons, attendants in waiting, were fanning large sheets of paper over their father and offering him water and a nerve tablet. The man's shaking and wailing indicated a full-fledged hissy fit. I assessed rather quickly that here lies the poor soul that ran atop of a SUV on his way to retirement and a life of ease.

Before I could make it to the back of the truck, I was interceded by a woman more suited for gardening than moving and a female officer dispatched to the accident. The female officer waddled towards me wiping her squared bangs from her overly sweating forehead. Her smile was a prelude to her long drawl of "Hey, you wouldn't happen to be Estelle and Dean's son, would you?" This was an invitation for the gardner to remove her Jackie-O inspired sunglasses and proclaim "Well, they Lawd I wouldn't had recognized you from Adam's house cat." Before long, the two women and I were chatting about the cool summer and the recent changes in the mountains while my friend looked on in amazement and the man on the truck continued his nervous breakdown. I am sure this more resembled a church homecoming than the scene of an accident.

While completing the report, the officer continued, "now you tell your uncle Rayliss he and I gotta get back to deer huntin'." At this point I was certain this was the officer's way of indicating that it was all going to be fine and that she also lived with another woman who happened to drive a truck for the UPS. "Yep, I gotta new bow with about a 40lb pull . . . ." Definitely the UPS.

I thanked everyone when I signed the police report and assured all I would tell my mama and them hello. Then, I walked over to the man on the truck bed. His moan had lessened to a whimper as he sat with his worldly possessions packed behind him. His teenage sons rolled their eyes, a gesture that I thought was more ungrateful than cool. I put my hands on the man's shoulder and calmly said, "Mr. Flint, I am Brian Crisp and I just want to make sure you are o.k." The man looked up with his tear-stained eyes and no words. It was this silence that was needed.

Finally, he stood up, lowered his head and mumbled, "I am so sorry." I patted his upper arm and reassured him all was just fine, no one was hurt, we had insurance and that accidents happen to us all. He lifted his head a bit and his smiled indicated a bit of relief his sons could not offer. He was going to be o.k., as was I . . .right down to my foundation.

I walked away and pulled out my phone preparing to call Estelle and relate the accident's course. She would need a few minutes for her own hissy fit concerning the safety of her only child. I was sure of the on-coming question, "Were you wearing clean underwear?" I thought it best not to tell her that I wasn't wearing any at all.