Looking to release some of the tension built up over two housebound days tending to small ill people, I headed to the gym this morning. I parked my car, walked twenty paces away and thought, "Eh, I'm parked kinda close to the car next to mine. They might have trouble opening their door." The spaces, after all, were not angled—sometimes that's tricky with larger vehicles. So I got back in my car, set about adjusting my parking job, and...BUMP. Just a small bump. No big deal. I pulled back into my space and the woman (heretofore known as "Satan") with whom I co-bumped, pulled back into hers.
"My car's fine," I said, walking towards her. "Everything okay with yours?"
"I honked twice!" said Satan. "Twice."
"Well, we're under the highway overpass here. It's pretty loud. I didn't hear you. Or see you, for that matter—sorry."
"What's wrong with you? I honked twice." Apparently, Satan has attention deficit disorder.
"That would indicate that you saw me. So why didn't you stop? Like I said, I didn't even see you. I mean we're both in the wrong here...oh, never mind," I said, seeing my workout time slipping away from me. "Can you just check your car please?"
At this point, a man walked over to us. "A little bump, huh? I saw."
"I honked twice," Satan said. Again.
"We're under the freeway, though," said the very intelligent man. He took a look at both cars. "You're both in good shape."
Satan then proceeded to wipe all the dirt off the rear of her small, white Lexus. She decided that a 3-inch scratch underneath the bumper was caused by me.
I drive a Suburban, for chrissakes. My bumper was the same height as her trunk. "Um, I don't think so," I said.
"My car is less than a year old!"
"What does that have to do with anything?" I said.
"How would you like it if your car was less than a year old and you had a scratch that you had to pay for?"
Apparently, Satan is also illogical. But this did not deter me from stating the obvious. "My car is black. If I scratched yours, there would be white paint somewhere on the back of my car. As you can see, there's no white paint on the back of my car."
Satan squatted down to inspect the back of my car. She saw no paint. Nevertheless she screeched, "How can you just ignore the scratch?"
"Look, I'm sorry your car has a scratch, but it's not from my car."
"I want your information."
The highly intelligent man spoke again. To Satan he said, "Lady, I'm not picking sides, but no way did her car give you that scratch. You just need a car wash."
For no apparent reason, she again announced that her car was less than a year old. She then bore her Satanic eyes right through me. "What, you don't you have insurance?"
The highly intelligent man and I looked at each other in resignation. He gave me his phone number, and I thanked him. I gave Satan my information, called her an idiot under my breath, and have been trying—with mixed results—to have a good day ever since.