Originally posted on March 3, 2011 at 3:24 PM
When the hub-a-dub and I were at the ripe young age of 16 (yes, back when Kyle was just a dub), my mom took us (Kyle, my brother, and me) to Port Aransas beach for a short vacation. Quick summary of the internal relationships going on: Kyle and I were 16 and secretly dating. We were also best friends and that’s what everyone else thought was all we were. My brother Robert is one year older than us, and he and Kyle were pretty much best friends too. At this point, Kyle was around so much that he was already a member of our family, which is why he went on vacation with us.
One night after my mom had gone to bed, the three of us youngsters decided we were going to drive around the small town to a gas station to get some snacks or something. This is what teenagers do when they’re bored and having a driver’s license is still cool. Although some of you may not believe me, I’m going to go ahead and say now that none of us were under the influence of any illegal substances. Seriously. That’s not how we rolled. (So many puns!)
And so it was in my mother’s minivan that the infamous event occurred.
You see, Kyle has always been a daredevil. In fact, when my mom asked his mom if Kyle could come with us, she gave my mom a medical release form. Now at the time, we were all thinking, “Holy crap, lady, take a chill pill.” But as you will see, she was simply taking the most basic of motherly precautions for her accident-prone child.
Kyle: “Hey, Robert, if I got out right now, do you think I could run alongside the car?”
Robert: “Dude, no way. We’re going 15 miles an hour.”
Kyle: “Awwww… that’s not that fast.”
Me: “Um, yeah it is. It’s way faster than it looks.”
Kyle: “No way! You don’t think I can do it?”
Robert and me: “Nuh-uh.”**
*long pause as Kyle examines the road out the backseat window*
Kyle: “I’m gonna do it.”
Me: “Oh, I really don’t think you should.”
Kyle to Robert: “Don’t slow down. Just keep it steady. I’m gonna hit the ground running.”
Robert: “Okay.” *facepalm*
The thing that happened next is crystalized in my memory. My mom’s minivan had an automatic sliding door with a safety feature that wouldn’t let it open unless the car was in park. Well, Kyle forced it open anyway – the alarm buzzing like a freaking tornado siren. I was sitting in the bucket seat next to him. It’s amazing how much faster the ground speeds by with the door open than through the window. Kyle grabs on to the oh-shit handle and jumps out.
For three long seconds, I see Kyle’s legs working so fast they look like the blur of Roadrunner. And then I see his face go from hell yeah this is awesome to oh my god I’m gonna die.
Now you may laugh to read that this is the point at which Kyle says he begins to regret his decision. (Really?) He says that if at this moment he had just let go of the handle and rolled off the road he would have been fine.
But he didn’t.
He decided to try to use the handle to leverage himself back up into the car as it began to drag him along. Such a feat is nearly impossible. It didn’t work. Kyle’s legs got sucked under the minivan. He lost his grip. He hit the road.
There was one soft, sickening thump as our back right tire went over him like a large, squishy speedbump.
Robert stopped the van. I put my hands over mouth and watched my entire future change in the space of a blink. “Oh my god,” was all I could say. We killed Kyle. How the hell am I going to tell his mom?
About six seconds later, Kyle hopped up and yelled, “I’m okay!”
You should really hear Kyle tell his side of it. I’ve heard him describe in slow motion how he didn’t have enough time to roll out of the way but he could see the wheel coming soon enough to scoot first his family jewels and his face to the side so that his torso got the brunt of it. He had pieces of asphalt stuck in the road-rash on his bum and tire tread-marks diagonal from hip to shoulder. I have pictures to prove it, but I don’t think hub-a-dub wants everyone on the internet to see his ass. (Although, to be fair, it’s a very nice ass.)
He lived, in spite of the fact that we somehow thought it would be a good idea to pour Bactine over his raw wound. And to not tell my mom until the next morning. For some reason, we thought she might “overreact” and demand that he go to a hospital. Gee golly, parents sure know how to ruin teenagers’ fun.
So that’s how my brother ran over my husband – the husband that almost never was.
If you’re good little children, next time I’ll tell you about the time we found the snake in the chicken coup. Until then, you’ll have to content yourselves with the saga of Roomba’s naughtiness, the time I lost my toe, and the oldie Kayakeroos. Ta-ta now!
**As you can imagine, Robert and I soon learned not to tell Kyle he can’t do things that he shouldn’t be doing. And don’t ever, EVER, bet him a dollar. *gets an idea* Hey hub-a-dub, I bet you a dollar you can’t do all of the laundry from now until we’re 80…
