Last night was wonderful. Had a great meal under the stars with a wonderful friend. Got home, said hello to Elvis, who hid out in the tub due to the extreme heat. Poured myself a gorgeous glass of oj with ice cubes in it, watched some trashy tv, read this book and turned on my brand new used air conditioner, for the first time, ever, and then fell asleep.
Woke up this morning, fed Elvis, took a shower. Got out of shower, was brushing my teeth, when I heard my doorbell ring. I went downstairs , opened the door (in a beige towel, with mascara running down my face and messy wet mousse hair) to be greeted by Walter, my next door neighbor. He’s a sweet Irish man with a brogue that could lull anyone out of anger or homicidal tendencies. Marrgrhett, I have sum not soo good news fer yah. I saw yer car this mornin’ and, well….and Walter steps aside. I look across the street at my 11 day old Honda Fit, whom I have named Atticus. All four wheels are stripped off , and poor little Atticus is resting on bricks. He looks as though someone pantsed him in the middle of the night. As I’m standing there, in a towel, mouth open, mascara running down my face, Walter graciously offers to give me a ride to work, after I actually look acceptable.
We’re in the car and I’m on the phone with the police, and they suggest to wait for them to stop by, so we swing back to my street. Walter, I say, I can’t thank you enough for all your help. Oooh, nottt a problehm, nune whahtsooo eveherr. But, em, my name is Martin.
Well ok. I’m in shock about my car, but the mortification that sets in about calling Martin Walter is almost worse than the feeling that I’m going to pay a $500 deductible. For 2 solid months I’ve been calling this sweet lovely man the wrong name, and I truly don’t think he had the heart to tell me until finally he’s driving me to work.
The ironic thing about this situation was that I was perfectly calm. I didn’t freak out, I didn’t start swearing up a storm, I think I just sort of glazed myself over. I went through all the proper channels, got myself a rental car, had pants less Atticus picked up, and carried on with my day. In the grand scheme of things, it’s a car, not one of my two lungs being ripped out of my body, you know? I did get pissed that my car, MY personal property was fucked with. How dare they!
As I was photographing the damage, (picture below) I noticed that the men walking by were more intrigued than I was. It’s as if some primal urge in them is curious about the mechanics of it all: how did it happen? In this neighborhood? Are the axels banged up? I’m like, dudes. I don’t give a shit about any axels, much less know what they are, and I sure as hell don’t care about how it’s held up. (it was on tiny bricks). I will be late for work and now have to file a police report. Great.
At any rate, I had a whole different story to tell you, but this took precedence. Atticus Fit got jacked, and that’s that.And Walter's name is really Martin.