by Bill H Myers
Had I not been on Abby's schedule, I would have stayed in until the water ran cold. But she was waiting, so I didn't waste any time.
I got out, dried off, went to the sink and shaved. Just as I was finishing, there was a light tap on the door. Abby asked, “You ready yet?”
“Almost, just need to put my clothes on.”
“Good because time’s a wasting. I'll be out in the car waiting.”
That didn't sound good. I knew it was never a good idea to make a woman wait in the car. Especially Abby.
I quickly dressed, put on the paper-thin hospital slippers, and headed for the door. On the way out, I grabbed my burner phone and looked for my wallet.
Not finding it, I went outside to ask her about it. She had said she'd gone through it looking for my credit cards and maybe she knew where it was. As I got close to the car, I could see her holding the wallet in the air, waving it in my direction. She either knew I'd been looking for it or read my mind.
Either way, the wallet was not lost.
Abby was in the driver's seat and had already started the minivan. I climbed in on the passenger side. As soon as I put my seat belt on, she put the van in gear, and we headed down the crushed shell driveway leading to Manasota Beach Road.
When we reached pavement, she took a right, and we headed south, toward Englewood's public beach. As we passed the house next door, where the reality show people were staying, I saw several cars in the drive. Most were late model sports cars, the kind young men with too much money and too little sense buy.
Abby didn't notice the cars; she was focused on the road ahead, watching out for bikers, walkers, and tourists who had lost their way.
When we reached the public beach, she took the round-about and headed east across the long bridge connecting Manasota Key with the mainland.
When we reached the light at McCall Road, she took a right, passing McDonald’s, and headed toward the Merchants Crossing shopping center where Bealls was located.
Traffic was light, and it only took us a few minutes to get there. She pulled into the lot and found a shady spot to park. Before she killed the engine, she turned to me and asked, “Can you make it from here or do you want me to drop you at the front door?”
I smiled. “I can make it. It's not that far. But maybe you should hold my hand just in case I get dizzy.”
She laughed. “You must be feeling better, wanting to hold hands in public.”
She was right; I was feeling better. And I liked holding hands with Abby. Even in public.
Inside the store, we headed to the men's shoe department. Like a lot of women, Abby was shoe savvy and had ideas on what I should get.
She steered me over to the sandals and picked up a Teva. She gave it a squeeze and smiled. I didn't know why squeezing shoes was part of the buying process, but I'd seen a lot of women do it. It seemed like something they enjoyed.
Abby held out the sandal, maybe thinking I wanted to give it a squeeze, but I didn't. I'm not a sandal kind of guy. I don't like leaving my toes exposed to the world. And I don't like that I can't run in sandals. It could be a problem if I was running after someone or running away.
I knew that men wearing sandals in Florida was the norm, but not for me. I wasn't the sandal type.
Rather than explaining all this to Abby, I just said, “Find me some steel toe tennis shoes, and I'll be happy.”
She gave the sandal one last squeeze and put it back on the display rack. She almost grabbed another one to squeeze but resisted the urge. Then she led me over to the work shoe section and said, “Take a seat; I'll find something you'll like.”
She walked down the rows of shoes, squeezing the ones that caught her attention. At the end of each row, she'd turn and head down another, stopping and touching shoes along the way.
I was afraid she wasn't going to find what I wanted, but she finally stopped in the middle of a row and picked up a pair of shoes. She asked, “Eleven wide, right?”
I didn't know how she knew my shoe size, but she was right. Eleven wides usually worked for me.
She didn't wait for my answer. Instead, she took one shoe out of the box, pulled out the paper stuffing and handed it to me. “Try this.”
It looked like a tennis shoe but was heavier than expected. I looked it over and noticed it had a steel toe. Score one for Abby.
I tried it on, and it fit. I handed it back to her and said, “These will do.”
She said, “No, you can't just try the left shoe. You have to try them both.”
She pulled the other shoe out of the box, removed the paper stuffing and handed to me. When she saw that the shoe fit, she put both back in the box and said, “Anything else you need while we're here?”
I could think of a lot of things I needed. Shirts, pants, underwear, and socks. But I didn't want to spend any more time in the store. I wanted to get back on the road and go to the impound lot to see what was left of my motorhome.
On the way to the checkout, Abby grabbed a three pack of men's low-cut socks. The shoes and socks were on sale at forty percent off, and I was happy to pay with a credit card. The paper receipt from the register came with a ten dollar off coupon that could be used on my next purchase. Needing a new wardrobe, I figured it would come in handy.
Back out in the car, I took off my hospital slippers and put on my new socks and shoes. Usually, I don't get too excited about shoes, but this time it was different. Taking off the hospital slippers and putting on real shoes gave me hope. It meant I was well on my way to recovery.
Abby smiled and said, “You like them, right?”
“Yeah, I do. You did good.”
She grabbed the empty shoe box and tossed it into the back seat. She started the minivan, and we headed to the second stop on her list—the impound lot where the remains of my motorhome were stored.
Chapter Seventeen
“You sure you want to do this? To see what's left of your motorhome? If you're not feeling up to it, we could go see it some other day.”
I'd wondered the same thing earlier that morning. Did I really want to see what was left of my RV? And did I want to sift through the wreck, trying to find anything worth keeping?
The reality was, whether I wanted to or not, it needed to be done. There were some important papers and coins stored in the fireproof box under the bed, and I needed to retrieve them.
The papers included the title to the motorhome, my honorable discharge papers, my bank statements and other documents I would need in the future.
If I were lucky, I might even find my health insurance card in what remained of the bedside table.
More important than the papers in the fireproof safe was a question I really didn't want the answer to but needed to know. Would I find Bob's remains in the motorhome? If they were there, I'd be devastated. But I had to find out.
The only way to know for sure was to go look.
Abby understood this; it was probably why she put the motorhome at the top of her list of places we planned on visiting.
She was waiting for my answer, so I said, “Yeah, we need to do this today. Before the weather ruins whatever is left inside it. I don't know what I'll find, but I need to look.”
Abby nodded and said, “When you first see the wreck you may want to bail. If you do, just let me know. We can always go back any time you want.”
I nodded, but I knew I wasn't going to change my mind. I had to search the wreck. I had to know whether Bob got out safely or not.
It took about twenty minutes to get from Englewood to the impound lot in Venice. The place was in the industrial park on the mainland side of the Intracoastal Waterway.
In any other town, the area would have been prime waterfront real estate. But years earlier, the city fathers of Venice had a different plan. They wanted to create an area for machine shops and auto repair facilities off the island but close enough that locals didn't have to go too far to get things done.
By the time the city fathers realized their mi
stake, the industrial park with long waterfront views was established. Some of the most valuable land in Venice, sought by high-end hotels, resorts, and restaurants, wasn't available to them. Instead, the land was used by cement factories, salvage yards and auto impound lots.
The one we were visiting had a ten-foot-tall chain link fence with three strands of barb wire across the top. A sign near the gate said, “Warning, this area patrolled by guard dogs.”
A narrow driveway at the entrance led to a small cinder block building. A metal door painted black, with the words “Enter Here” in white, told us where we needed to go.
I was glad I wasn't wearing sandals. The lot was littered with slivers of metal and car parts, which had probably fallen off impounded wrecks or cars going to the crusher.
My motorhome would likely be heading there as well. A sad thought.
Abby and I went through the metal door and walked up to the well-worn counter that separated the office from the visitors. A woman sitting at a chair behind the counter stood up and said, “What can I do for you folks?”
Abby pointed at me. She wanted me to tell the story. So I did.
“I was in a wreck, and my motorhome was towed here. I need to go through it and see if I can find some things.”
The woman smiled and asked, “You own that motorhome? The one from the video?”
I nodded. “Yeah, that's mine. I was in it when it happened.”
She shook her head. “When I watched the video, and I saw that Vette go airborne and crash right through your RV, it looked like it was from a movie. But I knew better. We had what's left of it here in the lot. After seeing it on the tow truck, I was sure whoever was driving would be dead.”
She smiled. “You sure you were the driver? You don't look dead to me.”
I nodded. “Yeah, I was driving, and now that I'm out of the hospital, I need to see what's left of it.”
She shook her head. “You are not going to like what you see. But we got it, and you can go look at it.”
She turned around and yelled, “Rooster, you need to come up here. It's the guy who was driving the motorhome. The one that got whacked by the Corvette.”
A moment later, an older man who looked like he spent too much time in the sun walked up and stood beside the woman. He looked at me and said, “You don't look too hurt to me. They said you was close to death. It sure don't look like it now.”
He pointed to the fenced-in area of the lot. “It’s out there. What's left of it.
“It took us two trucks to get it up here. Parts falling off all the way.
“You here to take pictures for the insurance company?”
“Yeah, we're going to take a few pictures, but I also need to get inside, see if I can find a few things I left in it.”
Rooster nodded like he understood and asked, “You haven't seen it since the accident, have you?
“If you had, you wouldn't be wanting to go through it. Not much left but broken glass and burned out cabinets.
“Still if you want to go see it, I’ll take you out there. But first, you have to get right with your bill.”
Rooster turned to the woman beside him. “His bill ready?”
She nodded. “I've got it right here. Thirteen hundred dollars, as of today. If he wants to leave it here, it'll be a hundred dollars a day until it's gone. If he wants us to crush it, it'll be another six hundred.”
She looked up at me. “Cash or credit?”
I pulled out a credit card and asked, “Will this do?”
She nodded.
Before I handed her the card, I said, “I'll need to see the motorhome before I decide whether to crush it or not.”
“Sure, no problem. But before you can go out there, I'll need to see your driver's license to make sure you are the owner of the RV.”
I opened my wallet and pulled out my license, the real one. The name on it matched the RV's registration.
I handed it to her, and she compared it to the paperwork on her desk. She looked up at me then down at the license and said, “You looked a lot better back when this picture was taken. I guess being in a wreck like the one you were in will do that to a fellow.
“After seeing the video, I wouldn't have believed you survived. But since you're standing right here in front of me, I guess you did.”
She handed my license back and held out her hand for my credit card. I gave it to her and watched as she ran it through her machine. There were a few beeps as it connected, then a pause, then the sound of a receipt being printed.
She tore it off, handed it to me along with a pen and said, “Sign on the bottom.”
Before signing, I checked the amount. It showed thirteen hundred dollars, which, according to what she'd said earlier, covered towing and storage fees but not crushing.
I signed the slip of paper and gave it back to her.
She turned to Rooster and asked, “You want to go out there and make sure he doesn’t get hurt?”
It wasn't so much as a question as her telling him he needed to go with me out into the yard.
Rooster nodded, stepped around the counter and said, “It's up near the fence on the back. We had to move it from the front because so many people were stopping to take pictures.”
He turned to Abby. “Young lady, are you going with us?”
She nodded.
“Good. You two wait here while I put Roscoe up. He gets a little bitey around strangers.”
Rooster went out the door, and we waited.
The woman behind the counter tapped something into her computer and said, “You need to buy a stack of lottery tickets. You surviving that crash means luck’s on your side.”
I smiled and nodded like I agreed with her, but I didn't feel lucky. I had lost everything in the crash. I didn't bother to tell her though. She seemed like a nice person, and there was no need to hurt her feelings.
A few minutes later, Rooster returned and said, “The dog’s up. We can go out there now.”
Chapter Eighteen
We walked about a hundred feet through rows of wrecked and abandoned cars. I expected to see the top of the motorhome over them. It was always that way when I parked at Walmart. No matter how far away, I could always see the tall motorhome over all the cars.
But not that day. I couldn't see it. And that was starting to worry me.
We kept walking, and I kept looking for it. But I didn't see it until we were right in front of it.
I wasn't prepared for what I saw.
Instead of the well-kept motorhome I had lived in for a year, all that was left were two large pieces of twisted metal.
The front half, where I had been sitting at the time of the accident, had the least amount of damage. You could still tell that it had once been the front end of a truck. The windshield was gone as were the side windows. But the driver, passenger seats and steering wheel were still intact.
That was about it though. Everything behind the driver's seat was gone. At least that's the way it looked.
The back part, which had been the living area, was a separate piece.
Anyone seeing it would know it had been in a serious accident, but they wouldn't have been able to tell that it once had been a nice motorhome.
There was no roof, and most of the side walls were gone. The only thing that remained to suggest it might have been a RV was the toilet still attached to the floor where the bathroom had once been.
As I took it all in, I finally understood why everyone was surprised I lived through the crash. Had I been anywhere other than the driver’s seat when the Vette plowed into me, I wouldn't have survived.
Abby came over and put her hand on my shoulder. “Are you alright?”
I nodded. “Yeah, but it's worse than I thought. Not much left of it.”
She put her arm around me, gave me a hug and said, “It could have been worse.”
I looked at her and shook my head. “Tell me how. How could it have been worse?”
She smiled and said, “
You could have died. But you didn't; you lived through it.”
She continued. “You can replace the motorhome. That'll be easy. You might even like looking at new ones. I'll even go with you if you want.”
I nodded and took a deep breath. She was right; it could have been worse. I could have died or been horribly injured. The fact that I was up and walking a week after the wreck was almost a miracle. I should have been thankful.
I kissed her on the cheek and said, “I'm glad you're here with me. And I'm glad to be alive.”
Rooster, who had kept quiet while I was getting over the shock of seeing the remains, finally spoke up. “If you two lovebirds need some privacy, I can go back to the office. But if you want to get inside the wreck and look around, now's the time. I can't stay out here all day.”
I had been holding Abby's hand, and I guess it looked to Rooster like we were more than just friends. We weren't, at least I didn't think we were. I let go of her hand and said, “Yeah, I want to go in. I need to look around; see what I can find.”
Rooster nodded and said, “Let’s get something clear. There's a lot of broken glass and sharp metal shards in there. Make a wrong step or put your hands where you shouldn’t and you could get hurt bad. If you do, I'll call 9-1-1, but that's it. I'm not a doctor and can't do anything for you.
“And we're not liable. As soon as you pass through our gates, you're on your own. Got it?”
Rooster looked at me, waiting for my answer. I thought about what he had said about getting hurt. I knew climbing into the remains of the motorhome would be dangerous. But I had to go look.
I looked at him and said, “I understand. It's dangerous. If I get hurt, I'm on my own. You're not liable.”
Rooster crossed his arms and said, “I don't like that we have to do it this way, but with all the lawyers out there sniffing around trying to find a way to make a buck, we have to be careful.”
He pointed at the motorhome. “I wouldn't go in there. Even if they paid me to, I wouldn't go in. Not without a hazmat suit and heavy boots.
“It's a real mess. A lot of broken glass and nasty stuff from the holding tank.
