Like a piece of metal exploded, the sound of bumper destruction came into my ears with the impact of a sledgehammer following its course into the concrete. My head snapped around so quickly that I think I heard my neck turning, and in front of me was a look of bewilderment upon this stranger’s face. Maybe “panic” would be more suitable.

Fresh into my internship at an Illinois newspaper, I was but a few hours into my first shift on the police beat as my well-traveled companion and I sat in the parking lot of the county sheriff’s department writing up reports. Better yet, he was writing reports while I eagerly wandered through the receptivity of my first full-blown, big league reporting gig, and then it came. The exploding metal.

I shot around in my seat toward the movie screen in the back window to witness one vehicle resting on the bumper of another, as in only two wheels touching earth. The driver, an obvious endorser of teenage wastelands, was in quite a state of disarray as she frantically pondered how to persuade gravity to accept all four Goodyear spheres once again. Gracelessly maneuvering the clutch that she must have made acquaintances with that very morning, she was finally able to bluntly introduce vehicle to pavement.