In the early 1990s, I was a broke, struggling young adult attending vocational school. My vocational training occupied most of my week, so I couldn’t work. I lived on a tight budget. I had no extra money, and I lived with mom and dad.
I was taking an algebra class at the local junior college. The college offered a class at the Air Force Base here in Tucson. So I had to drive on base several times a week. On test day, I was running late. I was concerned not only about the test, but whether I’d be allowed to take it, because I was tardy. I raced my car across the base and tore into the parking lot. I was driving like Billy Joel after happy hour. Usually, I’m an extraordinarily cautious driver. But today, all that mattered was getting to class on time.
I zipped into the first space I could find…
I hit another car! Damn. I jammed the brakes. Instinctively, I looked around me. Who saw? How many people would I have to kill? Anybody?
From what I could gather, nobody saw what had happened. In fact, there was nobody in sight. Sweet! I could just disappear -- like that runaway bride with the crazy eyes. But I didn’t. My conscience got the better of me. Still fretting over my algebra test, I wrote my name and number and put it on the car’s windshield. Paying the damages would hurt, especially since I was living on a tight budget, but I had to do the right thing (I’m so glad I’ve finally killed off the idealist in me). Anyway, I collected myself and labored through the algebra test.
When I returned home, I dreaded the phone call. I felt like a first-class jerk. I caused somebody a big headache and myself several hundred dollars. I’m sure the owner was going to be pissed. He might give me an earful of grief, or go Russell Crowe on my ass. [Ring ring. Hello? It’s for you, mother fucker. Catch!].
Sure enough, the owner had attempted to call me. My mom said a man had called, but refused to leave his name and number. He promised to call back later.
Damn. I was hoping he’d blow the thing off. The damage was minimal, after all. Maybe he’d decided it wasn’t worth the trouble.
The phone rang again. I answered it with grief in my heart. I felt like a grade-A jerk off.
“Hello. Is this the Lightning Bug’s Butt?”
“This is he.”
“Look, dude. This afternoon you left your name and number on my wife’s car. I’m calling to let you know she’s not interested. And if you ever contact her again, we’re gonna have trouble. Okay?”
Come to think of it, I didn’t explain myself on the note. I figured the situation was obvious: there’s a new dent in your car and I’m the guy who put it there. Here’s my name and number. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got an algebra test to flunk.
He was waiting for my response. My initial instinct was to apologize for the confusion and explain myself. After considering things for a second, I decided to roll with this promising new development. I’d rather be a louse than a lousy driver. And the former might save me several hundred dollars.
“I mean it.”
Ha! I fooled him. And screw him, anyway. Assuming the worst of me, he calls my house and tells me to cease and desist in a macho, threatening tone. No doubt he was some Air Force macho man whose whore wife was banging more enlisted guys than Lyndie England. The trampy wife probably couldn’t wait to show hubby the note some guy left on her windshield because she’s so irresistibly hot (and, as we all now know, dense!). I’ll bet the minute hubby left for the flight line, she cruised the BX for sausage -- the whore. In both their eyes, I was just another Jody hoping it was his turn.
Fine by me.
Anyway, I thought the whole affair (no pun intended) was pretty damn amusing and custom-made for the Blogosphere.