I told you last week that a late-night cherry-pie run ended with me and two police cruisers in the Giant parking lot. (Don’t worry; the Town of Warrenton isn’t waging war on crimes against nutrition. If it were, I would have been behind bars years ago: peanut granola or Hershey’s, that is.)
My husband had returned from India barely 24 hours ago, and had succumbed to the 10.5 hour jetlag. With Dr. Security asleep, I decided to risk an after-dark dash to the grocery store with my three daughters. My husband frowns upon late-night excursions: after 6 pm in winter, and after 8:30 pm in the summer. I reassured myself: I was a tough, semi-independent, pseudo-American woman, after all. I had managed six kids solo for a fortnight with the single mishap being arriving at a staff picnic in Herndon with my youngest daughter forgetting to wear shoes.
I could justify the urgent need for cherry pie. The next day would be my son’s and my daughter’s last day as Junior Hospital Volunteers. Tevy has worked for three summers with Lisa Spitzer in the Patient Concierge Department. Lisa is dynamic and bubbly, so the two bonded immediately. My son Sergio, on the other hand, has bonded with the free Bistro lunches that are the volunteers’ recompense.
After just two weeks working with Tevy the first summer, Lisa drove four hours to Virginia Tech for Tevy’s Teacher/Mentor Banquet at Summer Governor’s School. Now you understand why, when Tevy wanted to take Lisa’s favorite dessert in for the last day, we didn’t hesitate to make the drive. Making the drive, anyway, is easier than making the pie.
We zoomed through Giant and got a pie for Lisa, one for our family (we would be the sacrificial royal taste-testers), a sugar-free one for my husband, and a hypoallergenic one for my eldest son. Thankfully, we were only shopping for “one thing,” so we checked out at 10 PM.
Using the pedestrian crosswalk, the four of us stopped between the two handicapped parking spots where the crosswalk had deposited us. A massive pickup truck was looming near the aisle we intended to cross. We waited for the truck. The truck waited for us.
Unbeknownst to me, the driver was waiting for the parking spot we had barely stepped clear of. It was late, so naturally, there were only 350 other spaces available. But I was near the ONE he wanted.
I never realized that having a handicapped sticker apparently obliges the driver to park in a handicapped spot. Nor did I know that by standing near such a space, I might be asking to be classified as one who would be entitled to such a sticker. Road rage I’ve heard of, but this was my first experience with parking-spot rage.
Tired of playing the waiting game, the man suddenly gunned his engine and swung in hard into the space near me, leaving my dress swaying and my heart pounding. Had I extended my arm, I could have touched the side of his truck. We heard a few “What-in-the-ha-yell?!”’s from other late-night shoppers.
The infuriated driver spat out, “Keep standin’ there. I don’t care!” Had I been alone, I might have walked away, shaken. But I had my girls, aged 20, 17, and 8, with me. What kind of poor example would I be setting? I was the ADULT here, despite my daughters’ propensity to advise me in matters of dress, response to reader email, and the handling of their siblings as well as their father. I couldn’t allow some hostile and cocky man to endanger us and then walk off with impunity.
I motioned my daughters to proceed to our car, and then accosted the man. “Sir, that was very rude and extremely dangerous!” (I don’t know why I think it will intimidate people if I call them “Sir.” Even I know how lame that sounds.)
He swaggered out of his truck. “Whaddaya gonna do – call the cops?” he jeered. “Here – take my cell phone!” He jabbed the air with his phone before stalking off. I noted his license plate number and returned to the Giant Customer Service desk. I requested that they call the police for me, and within two minutes, two cruisers were in the parking lot.
As the man passed me at the customer service desk with his express-lane shopping, I said, “Sir, you might want to wait a minute. I’ve called the authorities.” Obviously exasperated, the man threw up his arms and said he’d wait by his vehicle.
The man and I independently gave the officer our driver’s licenses and our versions of the story. As a foreign-born woman, I’m glad I can equally depend upon the authorities to help when I call. The officer was calming and professional. I don’t know what happened to the man after I left. All I know is I did my part.
Can I make a cherry pie, Billy Boy, Billy Boy? Not as well as Giant, apparently. But if Billy Boy acts up, I won’t hesitate to call the cops.
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