Trying to back out of my parking space at Walmart, I had
waited for pedestrians to walk behind my car, then plowed smack back into
another car parked across the drive lane. The loud sound of shattering plastic
told me to slam on my damned brakes.
I pulled forward and got out to inspect the damage. Sure enough,
the empty Toyota’s back bumper was destroyed. Like I had exploded it. My car?
Not a scratch. I figured it must have been my SUV's trailer hitch that ruined the
cheap bumper.
Before pulling out, I had been so certain that no one was
parked there, I hadn’t even checked my backup screen. How stupid!
Now what? I pulled into another spot and pondered my
options. Shoppers had paused, looking on. I felt like they were waiting to see
what I would do.
Whether or not I could have gotten away with driving off, I knew better than to mess with karma. (Like most, I have history with reaping what I’ve sown.) I scratched a note and put it under the car’s wiper: “Sorry I backed into your bumper. Call me for insurance info,” and included my info. Still a bit shaken, I couldn’t remember my own number, and had to look it up on my phone.
Pulling into my driveway at home, just minutes away, I
worried that I hadn’t put down the right number, so I drove back to Walmart. All
was quiet, and my note was correct. I added a second one with my insurance
info.
I sat there in my car and tried to call my insurance company,
Liberty Mutual, for advice, but ended up in your typical AI loop of options,
which concluded by telling me I could file a claim by going online. “Would you
like me to text you a link to do that?” an irritatingly nice voice asked.
“Sure,” and soon I was off in digital-la-la-land, installing
a new app, then trying to log in. After several minutes of growing frustration,
I said, “fuck it!” I’d wait to see what the car’s owner wanted to do. “Aargh!”
Back home again, when I got out the shower, my phone showed a call
from an unknown number. I took a deep breath and hit the number.
A woman answered and I introduced myself.
“You’re the person who hit my car,” she said, more a
statement than question.
“Yes. I’m so-o sorry.”
She laughed. Why would she be laughing? Her bumper was
destroyed. It would be a colossal pain in the ass to get it fixed, aside from
who pays for it. I was dreading the hassles, and it was my fault!
But in a pleasant voice, she said, “My bumper was already
destroyed. You didn’t do that.”
She went on to share her tale from a week earlier when she’d
been stopped at a school crosswalk, and a pickup had rear-ended her. “I’ve already
filed a claim with my insurance company. The guy didn’t even have insurance.”
“So I didn’t do that damage?”
She laughed again. “No.”
Then she added, “You are such a good person. I can’t believe
you left your name and number.”
I explained my fear of bad karma. As if I needed to confirm this positive cosmic turn, I asked, “So we’re good?”
“Yes.”
I was stunned at my good luck. I thanked
her for being so gracious about it all and calling me.
She said, “I didn’t want you
stressing over this.”
“I was stressing over it,”
I confessed.
“Well, don’t.” For a second time she
said, “You’re such a good person.”
I never even got her name.
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