Usually I get stopped twice a month by a man in a car offering to fix the dings in my minivan. It is usually in a parking lot. I am usually polite, but firm in my refusal.
This week, however, I was stopped four times, twice in one day, and it is only Thursday.
“Hey lady! I can fix that good for you!”
“Hey lady! Why do you wanna drive around all banged up?”
Today a man pulled alongside me in his pretty golden convertible, AS I WAS DRIVING. He looked so sad when I told him, as I do all these men that I’d love the van to be all fixed up and pretty, but given that I’m likely to bang it all up again the very next day, it does seem somewhat unnecessary at best, wasteful at worst.
The man in the convertible looked like as though tears were about to spring from his eyes.
“For real?” he asked, his car still moving alongside mine like a shiny dolphin keeping up with a big, ugly, banged-up ship.
Quoting Fiona, I shot back: “Yes. For real life.”
Had I not turned down a street and driven away, I am sure he’d have offered to do it for free.
I wonder now what was most upsetting to him: the scratches, the dents, the duct tape holding the bumpers together, or the scars of duct tape past?