The gun fell out of the glove box. It went off. She died. That is what might have been reported in the Daily News—or worse yet; the cop died.
I wouldn’t have been driving the car that day if I’d had a choice. It’s Brian’s car, not mine. I have no car. I had the keys because I had taken Brian to the airport last night at midnight. I am supposed to pick him up tonight. I did just as I promised. I drove the car the three blocks from the airport and parked it safely in his spot beneath our apartment building. But that is why I overslept today.
My bus had already left the corner by the time I put my key in the door to lock my apartment. So, you see, I really had no choice. I dug the key to Brian’s car out of my purse, pushed the elevator button marked “parking level” and headed down to Brian’s car.
Brian paid extra for the spot. It was close to the elevator and situated so that cars could not park on either side of him.
I stepped off the elevator. There it was. Black. Shiny. Brand new. BMW prominently displayed so everyone knew. I pushed the button on the key. The locks clicked open. The smell of newness was so strong I nearly cried. I gently rubbed my hands across the leather seats—soft, supple and sensuous. Carefully, oh so carefully, I backed out of the space and headed for the freeway.
They shouldn’t make cars ride that smoothly, that quietly—that fast. I didn’t even notice the speedometer until I heard the siren and saw the blue lights flashing in the rearview mirror. It took a few minutes to get the car to the side of the road, but honestly, I just wanted to make sure that I could stop safely.
The cop, excuse me, the patrol officer, was not happy. He didn’t seem to realize that I wasn’t happy either. Now I was really going to be late for work.
“Ms,” he scowled, “do you realize you were going ninety miles an hour back there?” Then he demanded my driver’s license and the registration. That’s when it happened. I opened my purse handed him my license and reached for the glove box. Just as the box opened, the gun fell out. It went off. It ripped through the passenger door leaving a hole the size of a light bulb. At that moment I thought, this is not good.
When we got done at headquarters the cop, I mean officer, said, “Ms, this is your lucky day. You could have been killed racing down the highway like that and you could have been killed again when the gun went off. This is definitely your lucky day.
I don’t know how he could think that this was my lucky day. Brian is going to kill me when he sees that hole in his door.