Tuesday, April 9, 2013
It is a rare turn for me to remember something a pastor said an hour after the fact, never mind years later, but one maxim that’s stuck with me goes something like this: when you wrong someone, you wish for mercy–and when you are wronged, you long for justice. I found myself partly in the latter bucket today. I say “partly” because a sizable portion of myself fell into an altogether different bucket, darker in design and most assuredly not mentioned in the sermon.
It’s rush hour, shortly before 6 PM, red light. White Corolla S in front of me, about three, three-point-five feet away. Driver is middle-aged, blond. She starts rolling back a little–as is the wont of cars with manual transmission, I thought at first–and then a lot. I lay on the horn. Doesn’t do a goddamned thing. Crunch. I turn on my hazards, fully expecting to hear every excuse under the sun, followed by the customary exchange of info.
Doesn’t happen. She makes her left. All right–maybe we’re pulling into the church on the right? Nope. Keeps going. I flash my highbeams, apply ample horn juice, and this ritual goes on for two, three miles. At one point, she flashes her left turn signal, then quickly extinguishes it. Perhaps her normal route home? She continues straight instead. Runs a yellow. Only problem is we’re on a long-ass, single-lane road in rush-hour traffic, and a glorious recreation of the white Bronco chase ensues, albeit at 0 to 15 mph.
A little more horn juice, and then I dial 911. I give the dispatcher cross streets, landmarks, plate number, the big pop art decal of Jesus in a crown of thorns on her rear window. The call concludes, and I’m to end the chase and wait in a parking lot for the trooper. I check over the ol’ Saab. Fuckin’ front bumper looks untouched, unlike her warped rear bumper, and my relief was frankly mixed with a good amount of disappointment. It’s like sitting in the exam room, and just as the doctor walks in, all your symptoms miraculously dissipate. For whatever reason, I’m also thinking about her Jesus decal, and it irks me to no end. It’s, like, “Own up, you dumb bitch.” I’ll be totally honest, too: I briefly considered blaming another, older cosmetic blemish on this woman, but then I decided to err on the side of truth. Terrible for me to think, I know, but I weighed it.
The state trooper was a young dude with a hat who seemed to be just enjoying the weather. I recounted my story. “Sounds like the lamest hit-and-run ever, right?” I remarked to a good chuckle. We discussed my options, and he gave my car the onceover. “I can file a report, if you want,” he offered. But the lack of damage just wouldn’t help my case much, he concluded. Plus, I wasn’t sure of my insurance reprecussions, so we shook and parted ways.
It looks like I took the high road, right? I chose the path of forgiveness. But then, and even now, I’m marinating on the cost of repairing her bumper, the logging of her plate, the burden of whatever stress she felt, the awkward conversation of explaining why she was late to wherever she was headed, and delight, rather than forbearance, is the dominant emotion. I don’t think buying my own Jesus sticker is going to cut it.