What constitutes a near-death experience?  Do you have to see your whole life flash before your eyes?  Do you actually have to be revived after flat-lining?  ...Or you just have to be glad that you didn't have a full bladder during your close call?

After a weekend tent-out with a few friends on a huge plot of land that one of them owns, I was riding shotgun on a three hour trip home today with my friend, Bob.  I guess I could call Bob an uncle of sorts.  He grew up with my dad, is one of his best friends, and has been in my life since I was a baby.  He also is an employee of Dad's.  In any case, he was behind the wheel as we rode down the highway in the company's new white box truck, with the back filled up with music equipment.  It's so new, it hasn't even gotten lettering or ladder racks on it yet, but it's perfect for carrying drums, guitars and amplifiers in the meantime.

The old man and my mom are a few hours behind us, because they'd decided to stay a bit longer to shoot the breeze and have some lunch.  Bob and I have about an hour left of traveling to go, and I'm spacing out in the passenger seat when I realize we're drifting closer and closer to the guard rail.  I quickly look up at Bob, expecting him to be slumped over in his seat after having a stroke or heart attack or something.  He appeared to still have his eyes on the road, since he had his sunglasses on, but we were still drifting at an alarming rate toward that barrier.

"BOB!!!"

"SHIT!!!"

The truck grinded along the guardrail for almost a second before Bob regained control.

"WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT??"

"I JUST LOOKED DOWN FOR A SECOND!"

We both sat there silently, with white knuckles and backs completely straight, trying to digest what had just happened.  Before we could even find a suitable place to pull over and check out the damage, I uttered the first thought that popped into my head, as I realized I had not actually died in a fiery wreck.

"What are we going to tell the Boss?"

We call my dad "The Boss" for reasons more than the fact that I once worked for him and Bob still does.  Dear old Dad is a control freak, and he's not known for having a long fuse.  He's a hot-headed Italian, and you'll find yourself rehearsing your explanation to him about why the sky is blue on a day when the weatherman specifically predicted overcast. 

"I just looked down for a second," will not cut the mustard as an explanation for the long, jagged scars now running down the lower side of a brand new truck.  After we pulled over to inspect the damage, we came up with several different scenarios.

"An animal ran out in front of us, and Bob swerved to avoid it."

"Somebody cut us off, and took off so fast, we couldn't get the license plate number."

"A piece of furniture flew out of the back of someone's truck, and if Bob didn't move, it would've impaled both of us through the windshield."

As we fired off these suggestions, we nervously chatted about how it's now clear that the cab part of the truck is made of metal and the box is made of fiberglass, or how we hope the fluid dripping underneath the truck is from the air conditioning that was barely turned on.  I could tell that both of us were thinking the same thing:  We've got to tell the truth.  Not only does it suck being lied to, but the truth always comes out anyway.  Honesty is the best policy.

Even still, we're both at fault for not calling him and telling him right after it happened.   As I'm sitting here writing this, I should be offering the explanation to him.  Bob told me to let him handle breaking the news.  After all, it was him that screwed up.  I'll still have guilt by association though.  Waiting to tell is as good as lying to my father.  So, if what I experienced was not a near-death experience, I'm going to have one when the old man confronts me about my secrecy, if I survive it. 

Please say a little prayer for me, or you may miss the opportunity to read any more of my amazingly competently written blogs.