I have your plate number.
A young man drove in from a far suburb and parked on a street where cars were parked bumper to bumper. His sports model was fresh off a showroom floor and didn’t have a scratch on it. He had scraped and saved to buy that baby.
He had never circled a block for hours during a snow emergency. He didn’t know that fighting for a parking space is an urban survival skill. He saw a bumper full of dents and dings as sign of carelessness instead of grit and determination.
When he came back from whatever he was doing, he noticed a very used Camry parked not six inches behind him. He was angry at how tight the space was. He checked his bumper and, sure enough, a scratch.
He left a note: YOU SCRATCHED MY CAR. CALL ME. I HAVE YOUR PLATE NUMBER.
The offending driver liked to shoehorn into impossibly tight spots to show off his skills. He could be a jamoke that way. But after thinking it over, he decided to call and apologize, and to drop a $50 bill in the mail.
The owner of new car was surprised to hear from him — and embarrassed. He said he had a good night’s sleep and woke up realizing that the first scratch on a new car is a rite of passage. Not a big deal, he said. They’re called bumpers for a reason.
The men came hung up feeling good about themselves and the world they live in. And with the price of ammo being what it is, they had saved themselves a few bucks.
