I Have the Worst Luck with Cars, Part XIV: It Spreads Again

Back in 2006, I was driving down the road from my apartment, going to meet my then-boyfriend at a show for which he was doing sound, and as I pulled around a corner, I noticed that a firetruck was on the side of the road, trying to put out a raging fire that had engulfed a Bronco. One of the non-firefighting firefighters waved for me to stop, since the flames were starting to get unruly, and when I came to a complete stop - well away from the vehicle - it suddenly exploded. For real exploded. The blast sent one of the firemen flying backward a couple of feet, and a plume of fire reached for the sky. Thankfully, no one was injured badly (I have no idea where the driver was), and I had a cool story to tell my friends when I arrived in downtown Nashville.
Ever since that incident, I have witnessed at least one car each year burst into flame. Now, I know what you're thinking: coincidence. But I kind of feel like those people who have been scheduled to fly on planes that have crashed not once, but twice; or like the guy who lived during the Civil War (it's #4 on this list by Cracked) who tried to escape it but only managed to move wherever the war was. Statistically, it should not be possible for me to witness this many car fires. The only conclusion is that I am merely passing on my bad luck with cars, only in concentrated doses.

Fast forward to August 5, 2014, and I've had a long day. It started when, on a quest to retrieve my paycheck so I could mail off rent, I didn't read the bus schedule correctly and ended up having to walk 3.3 miles.* In an effort to reward myself - despite my lactose intolerance and knowledge that I would be miserable later on - I stopped in the Comfy Cow for some salted caramel ice cream and took out my recently purchased Deadpool Killustrated trade paperback, ready for some relaxation.

And then I saw smoke coming from the road. Sure enough, as I craned my neck to see what was actually happening, an abandoned Ford F350 (again, I have no idea where the driver was) was parked at the light, flames clearly visible underneath the engine of the truck. Being an upstanding citizen, I called 911, and a few short seconds later, a firetruck pulled up in front of the vehicle and began trying to kill the fire. I, of course, am freaking the fuck out, because, if you'll recall, a similar situation had ended in a damned explosion, but nobody was listening to my pleas. After a while, I just stopped trying to convince the college students that they could be hurt and had brief vindictive visions of saying, "I told you so."

Now, nothing of note happened, unless you count the tires blowing from the heat or the fact that the fire just did not want to die; every time they sprayed that anti-fire stuff, it was just come back to life, bigger and better than before. But eventually, it was a done deal, and the truck was merely a charred piece of metal that was quickly removed from the street, allowing everybody to go about their business.

So maybe my supposed curse on others is waning? Nothing got blown up this time. Regardless, my friends are starting to wonder if I'm like Drew Barrymore in Firestarter.

* Hey, it was either that or wait for close to an hour and a half.