Ford Bites Back
This morning found a busy shaogo, awake and out of bed rather early,
leaving the house long before anyone had arisen.
Procrastination is my middle name; and for the past two Tuesdays I'd let the
chores and errands pile up (my feeble excuse: total and utter exhaustion). But
all excuses failed this morning because I had a lot of little things that had to
be done on a deadline. Any time beginning Thursday the health
department will be snooping around my place of business trying to find
violations. Though nobody's going to go to the hospital over a
broken refrigerator-door gasket nor a failed thermometer attached to a veritably
infernal steam table; these and about a dozen other little things had been noted
as violations of the health code on the last inspection and I was the guy
responsible for correcting them.
About half-way through my errands, I got into my parked car outside of a vast
warehouse filled with just about anything a needy restaurateur would want,
cursing under my breath. You see, I was a victim of the clause 'just about.'
So on I had to go, continuing my search for just what I needed. Agitated and
humbled was a good way to describe my frame of mind. The people who run the
wholesale operations which supply lighting equipment, chemicals, (and
refrigerator-door gaskets for the commercial models) are all used to dealing
with licensed professionals. Each profession has its own jargon (the electrical
supply folks call a rubber gasket a 'vapor barrier' and the HVAC people call a
rubber gasket an 'enclosure seal'). When someone they don't deal with regularly
comes in, especially not dressed in workman's clothes, the salespeople (the 'counter men,' or salesmen to the trade),
try to prove to one another just what an idiot stands before them. Sure, I'd
gone to college; but I hadn't gone to the technical school that would let me
into their little club, so they therefore had a duty to make me feel as
uncomfortable as possible. In fact, at the chemical supply company the counter
men actually had joked (regrettably within range of my hearing) about what would kill me
first; the combination of my purchases with bleach, or the drugs I was gonna
try to concoct with my assortment of deadly chemicals.
Oh, I ran on there. Back to me, in the car, motor running and ready to back
out of my space. I'm no stranger to driving in areas abuzz with heavy industry;
trucks, forklifts and the like. What I failed to look out for was the car
darting in and out of the heavy vehicles, about to take the space next to mine.
Pay Attention When You Drive, Dammit!
Seemingly all at the same time, my eyes darted once more to the rear-view
mirror, my heart stopped, my foot trounced upon the brake pedal as hard as I
could, and a sickening "crunch!" could be heard. I'd backed into this man's car
— just a fender bender, no doubt, but this event was the fecal-scented icing
on the cake that I'd been baking for myself all morning.
The view in the rear view mirror was of the man; fumbling with his cell phone (a
no-no in my state while driving — but moot because this was private property).
His face was a red as Santa Claus's suit; but no 'jolly old elf' was he, no. As
I got out of my car, literally shaking with anxiety; he swung out of his,
howling about how he'd tried to honk the horn but he hadn't the time. This
fellow was loaded for bear, so I did my foolish best to diffuse the situation.
"It's my fault, sir; I'm terribly sorry!" I had both hands raised in a sign
of defeat before he could even wage his battle.
It turned out that he was paying a call on the owner of the business I'd just
left. The owner and I had done business for about ten years, luckily for me.
Because not only had I no drivers' license on me, I hadn't my wallet (just a
credit card and some cash). The current insurance card for my car, along with
the registration, wasn't in the car either (it later turned out it was in my
wife's purse, for some peculiar reason known only to she).
A Visit From The Constabulary Avoided
I persuaded the man
I'd wronged to join me inside the business, so I could be vouched for by the
business owner, therefore avoiding police, tickets, and no doubt a hefty
escalation in my auto insurance premium. The scratches on the man's car were so
minuscule, the financial cogitation began in my head. Recalling the
increase in premium the last time I'd put in a claim for a fender-bender, I
thought seriously about circumventing the whole insurance thing altogether. The
insurance company had paid out nothing to get the dent in my car fixed
(we have 'no fault' insurance and a very high deductible) but increased my
premium by $350 annually, for three years, nonetheless. No, no. I wasn't going
to have that happen again. Neither one of us was hurt; there was no fodder for a
lawsuit whatsoever.
So with Joe, the restaurant supply man as our witness, I swore to the man
whose car I'd just dented that I'd pay for the repairs myself; at the repair
shop of his choosing. I suggested that he go to the dealership where he bought
the car, and that I'd have no problem paying for genuine parts for his vehicle.
The vehicle was a Jaguar. Not the little one; a full-fledged, full-sized
Vanden Plas edition Jaguar. I believe (but am not sure) that these cars have
twelve cylinders, six more than did my humble conveyance. Having some experience in these matters, despite the pedigree of his
vehicle, I figured the most the dent to the front fender and passenger door
could cost to repair would be about $1,500.
When I returned to my restaurant, I was greeted by the sight of the man with
the Jaguar. Instead of going about the rest of his day's business, he'd (in his
own words) "blown off" the rest of his customers and gone right to an auto body
repair shop. The estimate was for $3,125. I was aghast. I made an effort to
convince him to have Jaguar fix his car. He'd have no part of it. Well, now I'd
done it. We had no police report, but he had witnesses to the incident, whose
names he'd taken down, and the truth be told, I was indeed at fault. I asked him
why on earth they wanted to put a whole new fender and door on the car; that the
scratches couldn't be more than 1/4" deep. He told me that the body shop had
told him that since Ford bought Jaguar, "the metal's too thin to repair; they
just replace the sheet metal." Running around in my mind was the four years of
my life I'd spent at Ford, extolling the superior quality of their products. I
felt like an ass; yet still didn't really believe his line of malarkey. I will,
however, research his statement and take action if I find that he's blatantly
defrauded me.
I wrote out a check for the amount, being sure to type "in full and final
payment for damages caused by (my name) to Jaguar (vehicle identification
number) owned by payee" over where he'd have to endorse the check. He pouted
about this a bit, and left the restaurant, not even offering to pay for his $45
meal, and failing to leave a gratuity for the woman who served him; the sign of a real creep, in my book at least.
Karma is as Karma Does
My wife was quite good about the whole thing. For this I'm grateful. Because
for a while there, I felt so world-weary and downright stupid that I fell into
quite a deep depression. I looked on the humorous side of the situation; wifey
rubbed in my nose the fact that I'd been fairly stern about her failure to drive
carefully (with four accidents in as many years under her belt). She attempted
to "not speak to me" for awhile, but each of her attempts at being a hard-ass
left us both laughing.
Finally, I'm also convinced, now, that the man whose Jaguar I'd dented will
not have his door and fender replaced, but take his car to someone who'll just
patch it up nice with a little Bondo, sand, paint and buff it out for under
$1,000.
We'll also see if my friend Joe trades with this man again, after he looks at
the estimate that was conjured up in less than an hour's time. I'm going
tomorrow to talk it over with him. After all, what
goes around, comes around.