[I wrote this post just for fun. I hope you enjoy this true story.]
Back in the day when people read newspapers, I decided to pick one up at my local King Supers grocery store to read while drinking my morning coffee. As I walked in the parking lot back to my car, a lady in an old beat up black Ford pickup whisked her truck into a parking space right in front of me. I had to stop abruptly to avoid getting hit. My Toyota Camry was on the other side of her truck and she had parked just inches from it. She was so close, Gumby couldn’t have gotten into my car.
“Excuse me,” I said politely as she got out of her vehicle, “Can you move your truck over so I can get into my car?”
She walked up to me, looked at her truck and my car, paused for a second, and then said with a smirk on her face,”Well, I would. But you didn’t say ‘Please,’ so I’m not going to.”
Instantly, my street smarts from growing up in inner city Los Angeles kicked in. “Just ignore her and get away as fast as you can,” I thought.
“Oookaaay,” I said, shrugging my shoulders. Then I walked over to my car and began squeezing in between it and the truck as she watched.
I gently opened the driver door, touching the side of her truck with it in the process. I stuck my right leg through the door, sucked in my gut and got my torso in, twisted my head and squeezed it between the rubber lining on the door and the metal body, drew in my contorted left leg and slithered into the driver seat.
“Ha! That’ll show her!” I thought victoriously as I closed the door, put on my seatbelt and started the car.
But as I backed up, I noticed something in my rearview mirror. It was that lady standing akimbo, like a female version of Mr. Clean – only with hair and a scowl – right behind me, blocking my exit.
When I stopped the car, she squeezed herself between it and her truck and leaned over to talk to me through my open widow.
“You can’t leave. I’ve called the police!” she informed me.
At that moment, all decorum abandoned me. “Laaadyyy, are you completely out of your mind! Why in the world would you call the police?” (My wife informed me later that calling her “Lady” probably wasn’t the best way to defuse the situation.)
“You slammed your door into my truck and dented it. Look. See what you did?” She pointed to a rusty old dent, one of many, about four inches below where my door touched her truck.
Exasperated, I reverse-squeezed my way out of the car and waited for the police to show up. In the meantime, I called my wife, who was getting ready for work, and asked her to come over. I realized I looked a little ragged because I hadn’t shaved or showered yet. I thought maybe proving that I’m married might soften my image a bit.
It must have been a slow morning in Broomfield, Colorado, because it only took a couple of minutes for two police cars to show up. A male officer got out of one and a female officer got out of the other.
The male officer asked me for my name and ID. “Reese….Reverend Reese,” I wanted to say, James Bond style. But I bit my tongue and settled for the more prosaic “My name’s Herb Reese.”
The two officers started interviewing my accuser first. She was in a tirade and it looked like they were taking her seriously. I quietly walked over to the trio, leaned in so I could hear better, and tried to listen to what she was saying.
“Sir! Sir! Step back!” the male officer shouted at me. I quickly took a few steps back.
The female officer left the interview and moved me to the back of my car. “Stay here!” she commanded.
Finally, my wife showed up. She stopped her car in the parking lot about ten feet from where I was standing behind the Camry, surveyed the scene, rolled down her window and asked me what was going on. When I told her about the crazy woman, she laughed.
“Well, what am I supposed to do? I still have to get ready for work and I’m late.” Then she sped off.
“O, thanks a lot!” I thought. So much for humanizing me as a married man instead of a deadbeat homeless guy who hasn’t shaved or showered.
Then the male officer came over, squeezed between my car and the truck, pointed to a dent that seemed to align with my door and asked if that was the one I made. “No. The car has been moved. And anyway, I didn’t make any dent. I hardly touched her truck with my door. I couldn’t get into my car otherwise. Am I responsible for every dent on the side of her truck?” I said in my defence.
The officers continued interviewing the crazy woman. She went on and on for maybe ten minutes. I wondered how I could have committed ten minutes worth of crimes in the few seconds of interaction I had with her.
Finally, the officers came over to me and told me they weren’t going to take any action other than to file a report of the conversation.
Whew! Finally I could go read my newspaper and drink a nice cup of joe.
That afternoon I decided to blow off steam by taking a long hike in the Rockies. A couple of miles down the trail, I came to a fork. To the right was a sign that said, “Warning! A mother bear and her cubs have been sighted on this trail.” I took the right fork anyway and ignored the sign. “Why should I care about a mother bear and her cubs?” I thought. “I’ve survived the lady in the black Ford pickup!”
This post first appeared in NewCommandment.org.
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Learn how to form teams of men for every widow, single mom
and fatherless child in your church at NewCommandment.org.
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