Before I had time to look up, a car slammed into the brick divider between my house and my neighbor to the east. What happened next is sort of blur, but I remember my dad and I hearing a crash and shuffling over a bit as a car speed across my front lawn—about five feet from where my dad and I were standing; over the exact spot we had been standing but three minutes earlier. The car smashed through the fence separating my house and my neighbor to the west, and slammed into the corner of that house.
Two kids jumped out of the car and took off running, while my dad yelled, “That’s right kids, just run away!” I think he may have been shaking a fist in the air. I ran to the door, yelling, “holy shit, holy shit” and bolted to the kitchen to dial 911.
The kids, two teenagers, maybe about fifteen or sixteen, ran down the street to the north. They were gone. The car was still running, a testament to Toyota Camrys, which are notoriously long lasting, but also notoriously easy to steal. And this car was obviously stolen: the ignition was torn out, the parking permit sticker was from the city of Berkeley, and I’m not sure the thieves were even old enough to have a license.
We stood in shock for a few minutes. The car that was idling with my fence now up on its back windshield had come close—really close—to hitting us. We were lucky our front yard saunter happened when it did, and not five minutes later. We were lucky the kids managed to hit lawn and fence, and not dad and daughter.
But the kids were lucky too—they survived (although judging from the cracked windshield, one of them has a minor concussion or needs a few stitches on his brow). They were also lucky that what was intended to presumably be a joy ride didn’t end up in the death of two adults. I kept thinking to myself, while feeling much older than my years, “it’s all fun and games until someone gets hurt.”
