i heard a crunch. i gasped. i looked at chuck. he looked at me. we turned around and the honda was butted up against a small white car in a sort of convuluted positioning that should not be seen outside of stargate's dance floor on new year's eve.
we are talking AT LEAST third base here.
there is that brief moment when you suspect that you may have mangled someone's property where you look in your rear view mirror and think: sheeeet. i better haul ass on outta here. you know, seek asylum on the safe side of the bong bridge. those old cluckers will never know what hit them, although with some elementary detective work, they may guess it was red.
instead, i sighed.
put my car in park and checked out the damage.
nothing. nada. finito.
i ran inside to tell the owner, who:
a) asked me why i couldn't have hit the car in a previously dented bumper blemish;
b) flecked away at the white paint i had gotten on my car;
c) waved from the parking lot as i fled superior city limits.
this is the second time in three months that i've nailed a parked car without damaging either vehicle. it may be time to put a little post it note on my dashboard that says:
CHRISTA! you are driving your car! if you can read this, you are erroneously believing that you are the passenger. again. pay attention!
both times, the impact caused a horrific crunch -- and the whooshing of my deductible deflating my life's savings. both times i've been pleasantly surprised that nothing happened. that we are all driving around in $14,000 rubbermade containers and recreationally plowing them into each other. letting them bounce back to their original shape and in the meantime, keep cool things cool and hot things hot.
the last time it was my eccentric next-door neighbor's car. i'd left a note and my phone number, knowing that the damage was nothing that three juvenile hose specialists at the london road car wash could not spray away.
still, eccentric neighbor called my number and asked me a lot of suspicious questions about where i live and my hobbies and the make and model of my car and what i was wearing if i'm gullible and believe that these ruffies in his palm are really flintstones vitamins.
the kind of stuff you only tell strangers on the internet, not the phone.
i skated around all but my first name.
"well ... i'm going to have to take it around to some body shops tomorrow to get some estim --" he started to hoodwink me.
"that's not going to be necessary, i bet," i interupted him. "my boyfriend took photos of the damage, and it looked like i maybe got some paint on your fender."
"well ... uh ... hmmm," he said. "i guess i'll look at it again tomorrow ..."
"okay, bye," i said.
"but how will i get ahold of you? where do you live? do you have an email address? how will i tell you what they say at the body shop?" he panicked.
"um ... sir? you have my phone number," i reminded him.
i never heard from him again. in fact, it rained that night, so his car probably looked better than before i hit it.
i'm surprised he didn't ask me to do it again.