Nearly a year ago, a grizzled old man backed his Suburban right into the rear-quarter panel of my sweet, innocent Chevy Impala. My car has never done a thing to deserve such treatment, and truthfully, it has had a somewhat traumatic life. Upon researching the vehicle before I purchased it, I discovered through a VIN report that it had been repossessed from it's original owner. I've never had the nerve to ask my car what happened with the whole situation, but my guess is that there was some major neglect and possibly some name-calling. (That, or drugs anyway.)
Since the car has been under my control, life has been mostly good, however there have been some hiccups along the way. There was the hailstorm that cracked the windshield. There were the occasions that I went more than 3,000 miles before having the oil changed. (On a COMPLETELY UNRELATED note, please don't check my odometer right now.) There was even the time that - as the result of some sort of weird prank, gang initiation, or pagan sacrifice - I awoke to discover that my car was coated in sunflower seeds. (I still have no idea what sort of sign that was supposed to be.)
Through all those trials, my car kept its figurative head up and kept moving forward (or backward, depending on the gear). Then, the old guy - who had seemingly been at Hastings to search for "Hee Haw, The Complete Series" on DVD - struck. Upon hearing the crunch of his mammoth vehicle bullying my car, he exited his, checked out the result, and then finally spoke. His words of wisdom? "Damn. It's been a long time since I've hit anybody." I've consulted the Big List of Intelligent Things You Can Say After Backing Into Someone in the Parking Lot of a Book/Entertainment Store and this response comes in at No. 2,939,082,618. (Right after "Jellybeans are my favorite.")
Through the majesty of insurance, I was assured that all damages would be taken care of. I'd even be set up with a rental. All I had to do was get the car into a body shop for an estimate. Easy, right? Eleven months later, that has finally happened. My car goes in for body work tomorrow, and by Friday it should be looking as good as new(-used).
The question is, "Why did it take 11 months to get to the point?" Unfortunately, the answer to said question is a highly-convoluted one full of hearsay, happenstance, and conspiracy theories. ... That, or it comes down to the fact that the dent really is not THAT noticeable, and eating a Vistaburger and reading (or eating a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and watching television, or eating something off the Wendy's 99-cent menu and writing, or eating a bowl of cereal and reciting the lyrics to Journey's greatest hits, or eating Saltines and whittling the entire roster of the 1994 Kansas City Royals out of maple) always seemed like a better way to spend lunch.
Actually, I'm not really sure at all why it took so long to get my car into the shop, but I'm glad that it is finally happening. (Nice work, self.) Though my reminder of the serial parking lot prowler will be forever gone, My car will no longer have to be self-conscious about the dent in the rear-quarter panel.
Now if it could just do something about the fool driving it around.
Since the car has been under my control, life has been mostly good, however there have been some hiccups along the way. There was the hailstorm that cracked the windshield. There were the occasions that I went more than 3,000 miles before having the oil changed. (On a COMPLETELY UNRELATED note, please don't check my odometer right now.) There was even the time that - as the result of some sort of weird prank, gang initiation, or pagan sacrifice - I awoke to discover that my car was coated in sunflower seeds. (I still have no idea what sort of sign that was supposed to be.)
Through all those trials, my car kept its figurative head up and kept moving forward (or backward, depending on the gear). Then, the old guy - who had seemingly been at Hastings to search for "Hee Haw, The Complete Series" on DVD - struck. Upon hearing the crunch of his mammoth vehicle bullying my car, he exited his, checked out the result, and then finally spoke. His words of wisdom? "Damn. It's been a long time since I've hit anybody." I've consulted the Big List of Intelligent Things You Can Say After Backing Into Someone in the Parking Lot of a Book/Entertainment Store and this response comes in at No. 2,939,082,618. (Right after "Jellybeans are my favorite.")
Through the majesty of insurance, I was assured that all damages would be taken care of. I'd even be set up with a rental. All I had to do was get the car into a body shop for an estimate. Easy, right? Eleven months later, that has finally happened. My car goes in for body work tomorrow, and by Friday it should be looking as good as new(-used).
The question is, "Why did it take 11 months to get to the point?" Unfortunately, the answer to said question is a highly-convoluted one full of hearsay, happenstance, and conspiracy theories. ... That, or it comes down to the fact that the dent really is not THAT noticeable, and eating a Vistaburger and reading (or eating a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and watching television, or eating something off the Wendy's 99-cent menu and writing, or eating a bowl of cereal and reciting the lyrics to Journey's greatest hits, or eating Saltines and whittling the entire roster of the 1994 Kansas City Royals out of maple) always seemed like a better way to spend lunch.
Actually, I'm not really sure at all why it took so long to get my car into the shop, but I'm glad that it is finally happening. (Nice work, self.) Though my reminder of the serial parking lot prowler will be forever gone, My car will no longer have to be self-conscious about the dent in the rear-quarter panel.
Now if it could just do something about the fool driving it around.
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