Scratching the surface

When leaving my car in a parking lot, my father always reminds me to keep the car far away from the others. He believes the farther away it is, the less likely it will be scratched, dinged or stolen.

“You never know with those crazy drivers,” he says.

The rest of the family rebuts his thinking. They tell him he’s so protective of his own car, he should sleep with it under his bed and carry it around with him so no one can scratch, ding or steal it.

Of course, it’s nearly impossible to avoid having anything happen to your car. My little Lexus has small scratches and dings (inside and outside), although they’re mysteriously on the passenger side of the car.

Hmmm, I wonder how they got there...? Is there anything you’d like to tell me, Mother…?

Much to my dismay, I listen to my father’s advice, but I can’t do anything about the other drivers.

**

As I step out of my car and move towards the parking metre, I walk around the trunk and see it: a two-and-a-half foot (as in 30 inches) scratch that starts on the rear quarter fender and extends to the rear passenger side door.

Thirty fucking inches worth of scratch on my navy blue car. I am fuming.

For the person who made such an indelible mark on my car, I may not know who you are, but I hope get stuck in one of those vacated, hick towns, where there’s some psycho out huntin’ fuckers who scratch the paint surfaces of other people’s cars and don’t leave a note of concern, or a number of their insurance company, impales you with a pole through your forehead like Paris Hilton in House of Wax.

Or he can just leave a 30-inch scratch on your own car.