Short stories (Luck or something else)

Too Hot To Handle

 In my youth, I will admit to being an idiot behind the wheel. I had a 1960 Oldsmobile convertible with oversized cheater slicks on the rear. We lived three miles out of town, and I liked to see how fast I could get to the base of North Main Hill. It was February, and the morning sun hadn’t completely removed the slush from the highway. An 18 wheeler was coming from my right, and I needed to go left. I waited for him to pass, then carefully pulled out and floored the Olds. I looked at the speedometer as I passed the truck, and it read 110. I slowly pulled out and there was no oncoming traffic as the Olds continued to accelerate. As I pulled in front of him, I couldn’t straighten out, and I went into the ditch on the right side. I regained control, but I approached the left side of the ditch at too steep an angle. I flew over the road and hit a telephone pole three feet off the ground and chopped it off. The Olds hit a second pole, and the hood took the convertible top off at the base at the door posts. The truck driver couldn’t believe I wasn’t dead, and took me to the hospital. The following day I was so swore I couldn’t move, but the third day my mother took me to the junk yard to get my personal effects from the Olds. The instant she saw my car she began to weep. The motor was in the front seat and the top was missing. Ok, so I’m really lucky.