Backing Up Fail
After I left Mighty this morning, I went to my car to change into my dry shirt. Utah Street in San Francisco was empty. 50 feet away, some chick climbed into her Camry, started it up, backed all the way across Utah Street in a slight arc, and put her back bumper through my left fender.
I jumped out of my parked car and said, “Stop. You better give me your insurance information.” She got out, looked at my car, shrugged and started to drive away, “Doesn’t look that serious.”
“What is serious is that I’m going to call you into SFPD with your plate number if you drive off. Then, I’ll get your insurance info from the cop while you sit in jail.”
“But, I didn’t see your car! What were you doing?”
“My keys were on the passenger seat. I was sitting there, parked, and your stupid drunk ass backed into my new car.”
“I’m not drunk.”
“Then you’re a shitty driver. Give me your insurance information right now, or I’m calling the cops.”
She relented, copied down her insurance information, and then skedaddled. Now that I’m looking at the slip she gave me I realize that I forgot to write her license plate number down. Way to fail, Apollo. Let’s hope she gave you real numbers, dude.
Incidentally, why do I see BMWs driving around the Silicon Valley without a scratch but my Pontiac Vibe is a target for everyone kicking their doors open? I don’t mess with your Honda minivans and Camry hybrids. Stop slamming your stupid doors into my little station wagon.
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