Printed in The Fauquier Times-Democrat, Weekend Edition on Feb. 3, 2012
Just as we finished our Thai eggplant lunch in Charlottesville, I spotted the driver whose car I had bumped while attempting to parallel park. I had had a glimmer of hope when I had read the bumper stickers on that car. I believed that the driver was a loving and forgiving being whose single greatest concern was the sanctity of life, not a minor black smear from my rear bumper.
This is why I go bumper sticker-less. I would prefer that your impression of me come directly from me, not from signage on my clothing or my car. Sometimes, people with the saintliest bumper stickers drive like hounds of hell. I wonder whether the car has been stolen or if the fanatical driver has forgotten what he or she was hoping to advertise while cutting you off.
This is like the introduction some men believe to be flattering to their mates. “And here is my beautiful wife.” Gentlemen, if your wife is good looking, others will probably notice without your announcement, unless it is for the Society for the Visually Impaired. And if she is beautiful to you because she is a loving person, we will notice that too, eventually. But we will notice.
I told the man that I had “tapped” his car. He scrunched up his face and scrutinized the front of his car and the back of mine. Too bad I didn’t have any bumper stickers.
“Look!” I cheerfully pointed to the neon green sticky note I had left on his driver’s side window. I wanted to show that even though I was a clumsy driver, I wasn’t a criminal. I omitted to mention my mental debate over leaving any note and my “military escort” (as well as military witnesses) who had helped me maneuver into the space.
I held my guilty, eggplant-laden, breath and sighed with relief after passing this driver’s inspection.
In my daughter’s dorm room, I latched on to her laptop to get online and fire off “meaningful responses” to nine of my peers’ papers for my education class. Having defeated that deadline, I rushed back to Warrenton to meet my youngest children’s bus.
The brakes kept making odd sucking actions whenever I stopped. At the stoplight I tried the old trick of parking the car, reapplying and releasing the emergency brake. Later, I pulled off and tried reversing the car as well. My approach to car maintenance is entirely medieval. If a series of steps has worked in the past, I religiously perform the ritual. No matter that the emergency brake wasn’t “stuck” this time. The car was acting weird, so I could too.
Finally, a flash of brilliance: Why didn’t I call my husband? This is specialization at its best. He took a quick history. When had I first noticed a problem? Did anything remarkable occur on the drive down?
“Oh, yeah…” my brain released its brake and shifted into gear. “Come to think of it…” I had stopped short on the way down. The anti-lock brake system had pulsed into action. I had been distracted, but not, as you might think, by my phone. I was pointing out an adult-sized motorized tricycle on a side road and failed to keep my eyes on the bumper in front of me. Truthfully, I do some stupid things while driving. If I could restrict the stupidity to behind the wheel, life would be simpler. It might be shorter too, but definitely simpler.
We ruled out everything else. My husband reminded me that the car had occasionally behaved this way once the ABS had been engaged. (Not that this happens every day, okay? That’s why I couldn’t remember this behavior.) I am in danger of incriminating myself in writing and receiving a home visit by an officer with a citation.
I got home just in time to attend to the children. My teenaged boys had already met the two youngest off the bus. I only had a few minutes at home before I needed to get to the meeting that I really wanted to attend that evening.
Once again, my husband suggested that I forgo this voluntary meeting. (I had neglected to mention the parking lot incident to him, of course.) I had promised to take a friend, I reminded him, and that was important. The kids and he could scavenge something for supper, right? Was the sum and significance of my existence to provide timely meals?
“Well,” my husband, who is more gracious than I am when faced with defeat, suggested, “why don’t you drive my car since yours has been acting up?”
Had I known then that I was infected with the Modified Midas Touch for Vehicles, the one that says you will regret whatever steering wheel you touch, I would have listened to reason, my conscience, or possibly even my husband. I should have stayed home.
But some mistakes you have to make for yourself. It’s just getting others to pay for them that is the tricky part.
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