It was 2:15 a.m., Saturday morning. I sat bolt upright in bed and turned to put my feet on the floor, annoyed. I didn’t know why I was awake, or why Amanda’s bedside lamp was on. “There’s someone in our yard,” she said. I got up and walked to the window. I pushed aside the curtain and saw a car in the grass, its front bumper facing south pointing toward our house, partly obstructing the northbound lane. I turned to walk downstairs. She followed but I didn’t know why – she was barefoot and five months pregnant and I was going outside to find out why there was a goddamn car in my yard.

It was cold outside and the car was unoccupied. I digest information literally, so I assumed that the person that was in our yard had fled the car, as had whatever vehicle that struck said car. There was a woman across the street in stocking feet and a bathrobe, talking frantically into a cordless phone. “I don’t know what hundred block we’re on,” she said. I told her, not knowing whether she was a neighbor or someone involved in the wreck. I scanned the street for any clues that would help me divine what was going on in my yard. I saw taillights 100 feet north so I approached the car, a late model sedan that had been absolutely smashed to shit. One person sat in the car, in the driver’s seat. I gave the person wide berth as I approached, standing five to ten feet away from the front left quarter panel. A young woman sat in the car, trying to push a deflated airbag back into the steering column. “Ma’am,” I said. Holding a mostly eaten lollipop in her left hand, she continued to fiddle with the airbag like a disappointed child trying to play with a burst balloon. “Ma’am,” I said more loudly, taking a step towards the car. “Ma’am,” I shouted. She looked up at me. The look in her eye said dazed, drunk, or stupid; maybe all three. The airbag made me give her the benefit of the doubt – maybe she was concussed. Ask first, judge later. After all, I hadn’t been awake 90 seconds and I was still trying to figure out why there was a goddamn car in my yard.

She opened her car door and said, “Sir…My car’s wrecked. Can you fix it?”
“No, I can’t. Are you all right,” I asked.
“Yeah,” she said.
“Did you hit that car,” I asked, motioning towards my yard.
“I was looking at my phone,” she said.
“Was there anyone in the car when you hit it,” I asked.
“I don’t know,” she said.
“Was it moving when you hit it,” I asked.
“No,” she said. “Sir, please don’t call the cops, I don’t have insurance because I just got this car.”
I could hear sirens and see flashing lights crossing Washington St., heading toward us. “That’s not my concern, I just wanted to see if you were OK,” I said.

Amanda had joined a small cluster of neighbors across the street from our house but the woman who called the police was noticeably absent. The fact that she didn’t know what hundred block that she was on when placing the call also raised questions about her neighborhood residency. We quickly surmised that the girl was A) totally whammered, and B) nailed a parked car in front of our neighbor’s house, spinning it around almost 180 degrees and depositing it in our front yard. She then attempted to drive away, but her pony was hobbled and had to be put down. The confusing part, though, was the fact that none of us had ever seen the wrecked car before and it was parked in a spot normally occupied by one of our neighbors’ cars. We called our next door neighbor, who inexplicably was not roused by the loud crash, and we learned that the car belonged to her young granddaughter who was supposed to have returned to her home in Brazil, Ind. earlier that night but had decided to stay over.

By this time the first responding officer had administered a field sobriety test to the driver of the sedan, which she failed spectacularly. Standing handcuffed at the rear of his squad car, she began to cry, saying that she was facing serious time because she “gave a stupid person a ride home.” She then protested, saying, “I can’t go to jail, I’ve got two kids I’m trying to go home to.” The officer had clearly heard similar lines before and said simply, “There’s no crying in law enforcement.”