IT'S FRIDAY! WHICH MEANS, MARK MORFORD TIME!
To The Drunk Who Smashed My Car
Quite a wreck you made, didn't you? And you didn't even leave a note. Are you the devil?
Yes, I know you were drunk. Must've been. Either drunk or on serious meds and/or you just didn't give much of a damn about anything anyway because you're just one of those people, one of those types who comes lurching around the city like a chunk of numbed pain in your big-ass mid-'80s burgundy car with the white top and chrome bumpers -- an old Cadillac? Monte Carlo? -- early last Sunday morning to wreak casual havoc.
Is that about right? Do you remember any of it? Here is what I'm guessing: probably not.
Let me tell you what happened, as I pieced it together from witnesses and all the shards of scrap metal in the street and from my mind's eye, and as I'm sure it's all one soggy blur to you. Oh yes, this is a true story.
Six a.m., Sunday morning. All quiet, all calm. Here you come, from outta nowhere, roaring around the corner just down the block from my apartment and then speeding hard up Fulton Street, my street, here in San Francisco, just as the sun was peeking through the fog and the day was coming into view and the world was barely rustling, still tranquil and peaceful and sleepy.
Of course you were going way too fast, and you apparently made it halfway down the block before you realized -- did you even realize? -- you were careening at a savage angle and suddenly WHAM! you slammed into the little Honda Civic parked on the side of the road, just behind my car, and you were going so fast you slid right off the Honda and crashed even harder into my brand-new and barely driven hot-as-love little Audi A3, a split second later. Oh yes you did.
You hit it hard, didn't you? You must've really been moving, to cause this much damage. You crushed the rear quarter panel from behind and slammed my car with such force you actually shoved its 3,300 pounds forward and sideways about four feet, slamming my car not only into the curb and damaging the wheels and axles and probably the frame, but also shoving it into the car parked just in front, thus mangling the front end, too.
Ah yes, it was quite a punch. You couldn't have nailed it better if you were aiming for it. A near-perfect hit-and-run, wasn't it?
But wait, something was wrong. You weren't moving. You were stuck! A sympathetic witness who lives in the apartment just above the grisly scene tells me she looked out her window immediately after you hit and says you slammed my car so hard your heavy chrome bumper actually got wedged into my car, and you had to jam your whale of a vehicle into reverse and tear yourself out in a mad tangle of scraping metal and plastic before speeding away, drunkenly, like the mad lurching demon you so very apparently are.
Is that about right? Is this ringing any bells? I do not expect you to reply.
Two hours later, I walked out of my house on my way to an errand and found my new car trashed and smashed in all manner of ungodly angles. The new car I had saved for for 10 years. The new car I loved like Jesus loves wine. The new car that had a mere 732 miles on it and was so new I didn't even have my plates yet. Broke my car-lovin' heart. Ah yes, what a piece of work you did.
Look. I am not stupid. I live in the city. I park in the street. I expect a certain level of vehicular abuse: scratched doors, pockmarked bumpers, tree scrapes and punctured tires and the occasional smashed window because some jackass thinks my CDs might be worth two dollars. I expect this. I have endured it for years and it has happened to every one of my previous cars, and no one I know who lives and drives in the city hasn't suffered some sort of similar abuse. It comes with the territory and I was prepared for it.
But not this. Not near-total annihilation, a brutal hobbling, when all was shiny and new and I'd barely acquainted myself with the car and it's just so damned nauseating, this level of violation. And what's worse, you will never even know. Because it's more than likely you will never, ever be caught.
They cannot find you, not yet, anyway. A good Samaritan took down your license plate number, but so far my insurance company has had no luck finding you and chances are you don't have insurance anyway -- and by the way, did you know the SFPD doesn't do anything about such things? It's true. You file a police report, they tell you to call the Hit and Run detail, the Hit and Run detail tells you that they only have about four officers anymore and there's basically not a thing they can do about your problem. Did you know? So they won't be coming for you. Not yet, anyway.
Yes, it could have been much worse. I know this. I could have been in the car. I could have been crossing the street as you lurched. There could have been kids walking around. You and your bleak nasty energy could have come into my life in far more damaging and malicious ways. You could have manifested as, say, a broken limb. You could have been death of a family member, or a brain tumor, dementia. You could have been a hobbling accident, adultery, illness. You could have been cancer.
After all, this is what you are, isn't it? You are that random little demon, a sliver of malevolent energy of the universe, the Thing That Is Always Out There, waiting, careening, howling stupidly, crashing into anything with wanton abandon and causing all manner of pain and disruption, chortling drunkenly and screeching away to find another arbitrary victim. You aren't the Trickster. You are the Trickster's ugly three-toed cousin. Yes, the world knows you well.
And I should be grateful. Grateful you only shot across the bow of my life and didn't cause any serious, permanent harm. After all, it's just money. It's just life. And it is, I fully realize, just a car.
But it was mine, and it was new, and it was beautiful, and you have trashed it, and it will take two months and cost many thousands to fix and it might very well never be the same. And for that, I shall still try to forgive you, maybe.
However, I cannot speak for the gods, who have my full permission to smack your karma and reincarnate you as an incontinent dung beetle in hell. Thank you.
Quite a wreck you made, didn't you? And you didn't even leave a note. Are you the devil?
Yes, I know you were drunk. Must've been. Either drunk or on serious meds and/or you just didn't give much of a damn about anything anyway because you're just one of those people, one of those types who comes lurching around the city like a chunk of numbed pain in your big-ass mid-'80s burgundy car with the white top and chrome bumpers -- an old Cadillac? Monte Carlo? -- early last Sunday morning to wreak casual havoc.
Is that about right? Do you remember any of it? Here is what I'm guessing: probably not.
Let me tell you what happened, as I pieced it together from witnesses and all the shards of scrap metal in the street and from my mind's eye, and as I'm sure it's all one soggy blur to you. Oh yes, this is a true story.
Six a.m., Sunday morning. All quiet, all calm. Here you come, from outta nowhere, roaring around the corner just down the block from my apartment and then speeding hard up Fulton Street, my street, here in San Francisco, just as the sun was peeking through the fog and the day was coming into view and the world was barely rustling, still tranquil and peaceful and sleepy.
Of course you were going way too fast, and you apparently made it halfway down the block before you realized -- did you even realize? -- you were careening at a savage angle and suddenly WHAM! you slammed into the little Honda Civic parked on the side of the road, just behind my car, and you were going so fast you slid right off the Honda and crashed even harder into my brand-new and barely driven hot-as-love little Audi A3, a split second later. Oh yes you did.
You hit it hard, didn't you? You must've really been moving, to cause this much damage. You crushed the rear quarter panel from behind and slammed my car with such force you actually shoved its 3,300 pounds forward and sideways about four feet, slamming my car not only into the curb and damaging the wheels and axles and probably the frame, but also shoving it into the car parked just in front, thus mangling the front end, too.
Ah yes, it was quite a punch. You couldn't have nailed it better if you were aiming for it. A near-perfect hit-and-run, wasn't it?
But wait, something was wrong. You weren't moving. You were stuck! A sympathetic witness who lives in the apartment just above the grisly scene tells me she looked out her window immediately after you hit and says you slammed my car so hard your heavy chrome bumper actually got wedged into my car, and you had to jam your whale of a vehicle into reverse and tear yourself out in a mad tangle of scraping metal and plastic before speeding away, drunkenly, like the mad lurching demon you so very apparently are.
Is that about right? Is this ringing any bells? I do not expect you to reply.
Two hours later, I walked out of my house on my way to an errand and found my new car trashed and smashed in all manner of ungodly angles. The new car I had saved for for 10 years. The new car I loved like Jesus loves wine. The new car that had a mere 732 miles on it and was so new I didn't even have my plates yet. Broke my car-lovin' heart. Ah yes, what a piece of work you did.
Look. I am not stupid. I live in the city. I park in the street. I expect a certain level of vehicular abuse: scratched doors, pockmarked bumpers, tree scrapes and punctured tires and the occasional smashed window because some jackass thinks my CDs might be worth two dollars. I expect this. I have endured it for years and it has happened to every one of my previous cars, and no one I know who lives and drives in the city hasn't suffered some sort of similar abuse. It comes with the territory and I was prepared for it.
But not this. Not near-total annihilation, a brutal hobbling, when all was shiny and new and I'd barely acquainted myself with the car and it's just so damned nauseating, this level of violation. And what's worse, you will never even know. Because it's more than likely you will never, ever be caught.
They cannot find you, not yet, anyway. A good Samaritan took down your license plate number, but so far my insurance company has had no luck finding you and chances are you don't have insurance anyway -- and by the way, did you know the SFPD doesn't do anything about such things? It's true. You file a police report, they tell you to call the Hit and Run detail, the Hit and Run detail tells you that they only have about four officers anymore and there's basically not a thing they can do about your problem. Did you know? So they won't be coming for you. Not yet, anyway.
Yes, it could have been much worse. I know this. I could have been in the car. I could have been crossing the street as you lurched. There could have been kids walking around. You and your bleak nasty energy could have come into my life in far more damaging and malicious ways. You could have manifested as, say, a broken limb. You could have been death of a family member, or a brain tumor, dementia. You could have been a hobbling accident, adultery, illness. You could have been cancer.
After all, this is what you are, isn't it? You are that random little demon, a sliver of malevolent energy of the universe, the Thing That Is Always Out There, waiting, careening, howling stupidly, crashing into anything with wanton abandon and causing all manner of pain and disruption, chortling drunkenly and screeching away to find another arbitrary victim. You aren't the Trickster. You are the Trickster's ugly three-toed cousin. Yes, the world knows you well.
And I should be grateful. Grateful you only shot across the bow of my life and didn't cause any serious, permanent harm. After all, it's just money. It's just life. And it is, I fully realize, just a car.
But it was mine, and it was new, and it was beautiful, and you have trashed it, and it will take two months and cost many thousands to fix and it might very well never be the same. And for that, I shall still try to forgive you, maybe.
However, I cannot speak for the gods, who have my full permission to smack your karma and reincarnate you as an incontinent dung beetle in hell. Thank you.