Deus ex machina – “God out of/from the machine” – was a popular method back in Ancient Greek times when a poet had written an unsolvable problem into a play or a story and needed a magical solution to finish the job. In modern times, this is frequently referred to as pulling a “Wesley Crusher,” from that character’s unpleasant habit of solving impossible problems on the Enterprise by whining incessantly and then pushing a button that everyone else had inexplicably missed.
Apparently the writers on the staff of my life recently found themselves in a similar bind.
My character’s situation had gotten so dire that many had simply stopped watching any more. The excitement of the diagnosis for #1 weasel had faded into the din of frequent breakdowns and violence, and the hopelessness of trying to imagine a future where specialized education was free and easy to find had worn everyone a little thin. The recent breakup of two main characters stood second only to the Red Wedding in senseless blood loss, and the continuing inability of our star (ok, I know it sounds a bit presumptuous, but I do like to think I’m first in the credits on my own life) to communicate with her partner was feeling more like a bad country song than a decent love story. Even the PTSD had ceased to be entertaining and was now just a tired, decidely unfunny punchline.
So, at 75 mph, my writers decided to hurl two tons of steel and plastic, along with its three very drunk inhabitants, directly at my house at 2 in the morning. The scream as the tires tried desperately to grab hold of anything as the driver cranked the wheel to make the turn woke us up. Theo and I looked at each other in dark and stunned silence as we heard the monster hurtling towards the front bedroom. The first crash (my car) saw us both find our feet and jump out of bed. By the second crash, I was on the phone with the dispatcher and she had already run out with a flashlight and a phone.
After forever (probably 10 minutes, but, up close it’s brutal,) we got the horn off, thanks to a neighbor’s pliers. The driver was there, his passengers had run. My car wasn’t too badly damaged, but the neighbor’s wall was toast, and the car looked like no one survived. Except they did. Everyone was ok, and suddenly all the neighbors were out chatting and catching up. The car and the wall had taken the brunt of the damage, and we were all chattering away in relief.
Of course, for two days, I kept hearing that car come around the corner, heading for my house. I expected another with absurd certainty, as if my brain assumed that this would be the new norm. Theo, who had been so heroic and brave, looked shaken, too. Her visit was supposed to last a couple of days – for my birthday – and she was due to head back, but, at the last minute, she cleared her schedule so she could stay.
The following day we were all toast after staying up all night, so we stuck close to home and talked. Theo and I talked about cars and 911 and police and emergencies, and then started talking about us. We talked about sex and play and partners and each other. We talked and talked and then really talked.
She stayed two more days, and the conversation continued. It was as if the car tore open walls inside us, too – as if listening to the sound of death roar up next door made it easier to bear a little life.
We’re off to a big event this weekend – a kink event – one I wasn’t particularly looking forward to. I had signed on to support Theo, who was going because it was politic to go, and had assumed I would just sit back and watch life go on around me. Now I’m a lot more hopeful, looking forward to a weekend with Theo, and hours to continue talking.
It’ll take weeks before that wall’s fixed – you can see where the foundation was ripped right out of the Earth. No sense waiting until it’s up, marking the line between us once again. The time is now, because, you know – life moves way too damn fast to even consider stopping.
And even the worst collisions can bring us all together again.
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