What I've Done - Linkin Park (mp3)
The Boy in the Bubble - Paul Simon (mp3)
Candace cuts hair in the mall. It's the only reason I go to the mall anymore. When I break up with Candace, I won't go back there for haircuts. Getting your hair cut in the mall isn't something to go bragging about.
What I do notice, however, is that someone in the next row has left their car out in the middle of the aisle. I chuckle. Did the moron park there accidentally, thinking they were in a spot? How can you not notice something like that?
I keep looking for my car.
Then, that horrible ominous sound goes off in my head. It's the sound of an evil light bulb. And I look back at the car in the aisle. It's blue. It's a Honda. It's got a baby seat in the back.
Yup. It's mine. I'm the moron.
I left the emergency brake off. It's a stick, and I left it out of gear. The lot apparently has a .01% grade to it, so as I walked across the lot to go in and get my haircut, my car was likely inching at a snail's pace back... back... across the aisle, until its ass bumped or nudged the car on the other side, a black Honda CRX from the early '90s, beat all to hell and with a paint job that looked like Mikhail Gorbachev's head would appear in a photo negative.
After getting out to inspect the "damage," Officer Blart informs me that he has contacted the Police Department, and although he cannot keep me at the scene by any use of force, my choosing to leave the scene would be construed as leaving the scene of an accident. He also asks me to move my car back into a space for which parked cars were originally intended. So, I slump my Toonces ass back to my car, pull it into my original parking spot, and sit and wait 40 minutes for the po-po to arrive.
Because the descent into hell is a slow spiral staircase rather than a deep freefall, things get a little more pathetic when Tackleberry arrives.
It seems the insurance card in my glove box expired in March. My darling wife had applied for a change of address and was waiting for the new one to arrive before handing it to me. Not only that, but because this all happened on Memorial Day, the company's contact line was closed for the day, so I had absolutely no way to prove to this officer that I was presently covered.
Fortunately, at the end of his lecture, the officer did what he didn't have to do: he let me go. He left the accident report information in the dude's windshield wiper. He bid me adieu. He chuckled, I'm assuming at the thought of just how pitiful anyone with a penis must be to fail to put their car in gear or hit the brake. And the event was over.
I am not your run-of-the-mill moron. I hope your Memorial Day was less pathetically amusing than mine.
To conclude, here are my wife's words of comfort and love at the conclusion of my story: "It's still not as bad as driving away from the gas station with the pump still in your tank."
Thank you, honey, for always having the right words.