5.6 Million Crashes!? Every Body Shop in America Should Be Creating a New Class of Billionaires

From the April 2016 issue

I was reading U.S. motor-vehicle crash statistics on New Year’s Day—because that’s the kind of three-ring monkey-yammering festival of excitement my life has become—when I was floored by two facts. First, I had misplaced my drink, only to find it being consumed by my 18-pound cat, Teddy Roosevelt. Second, U.S. drivers crash approximately 5.6 million times per year. Given our population of 322 million, that means 1.7 percent of our number apparently require further eye-hand coordination or English-reading skills or cautionary tales about dwelling in O’Cleary’s until last call, which is another way to lose your drink. Of course, I’ve known folks who crash multiple times per year—the Busch brothers, for instance, or any NFL player at all—which means that statistically fewer of us are actually devoted to driving 200 feet backward through a fruit stand on Boca Vista Boulevard. But, I mean, seriously folks, if 5.6 million of us crashed, say, our Easy Climber stair lifts, there’d be God’s own Congressional hearing chaired by Clarence Ditlow and three Barbary apes.

What’s more, the crashes were merely those reported to police, whereas most aren’t. One estimate, in fact, suggests we may be crashing 16 million times per year, and possibly more if Justin Bieber rents another Lamborghini. Am I wrong, here, or should every body shop in America be creating a new class of billionaires? I stupidly studied drafting in high school, when I should have studied the 1001 miracle uses of Bondo, primer, and naked-lady calendars.

Anyway, all of this held me in its thrall, as they say, because I’ve met plenty of ­people who have never crashed a car—ever. My grandmother, for instance, and several of the early Popes. Also, me. That’s right. I’ve never crashed a car on public roads. On racetracks, sure. Also on private property, where, for instance, while practicing 180s in the snow, I beelined my father’s Toyota Corolla headfirst into a cement flower box in a parking lot at Ohio State University. Then, while closing our garage door, I allowed my 1970 Mustang Boss 302 to roll down our steep driveway—with me watching raptly at a distance of 20 feet or so—and into my brother-in-law’s VW Karmann Ghia. We never fixed the Corolla, and my sister divorced Ghia Boy, so I can tell you that neither mishap relieved me of a dime, which, of course, is a crime in the eyes of the cosmos, so I will set aside time tomorrow to feel bad about it.

Phillips, shown here practicing defensive driving.