I can’t tell you exactly where I was when someone rammed into my car. I can tell you exactly where the car was, though: parallel-parked on Massachusetts Avenue beside a responsibly-fed meter. We had parted, the car and I, with an expectation on both sides that we would reunite a few minutes later intact in body and spirit.
I ran my pedestrian errand. While I did, someone backed vigorously into the front of the car and the rubber bumper cover flew off. It lay on the road by the driver’s door when I returned.
Boston has been credited with the country’s worst drivers. But this wasn’t Boston; it was a pleasant and mannerly suburb where we pride ourselves on street civility. Boston drivers are rude and rageful. Suburban drivers wave others ahead at rotaries, and don’t take up more than one parking space, because that would not be neighborly. These are myths, of course, but we pretend they are truths.
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I picked up the rubber bumper cover and felt flooded with Bostonian rage. A stranger had damaged my car and then driven away. The irresponsibility of it was a finger to the Golden Rule. And on top of everything, there was a ticket under the windshield wiper.
But it was not a ticket. It was the torn half of an Italian takeout menu with writing in a tremulous hand. “I hit your car,” the driver had written over a list of pizza options. “Please call Ann S.” There was a phone number and also the name of an insurance company.
Holding the bumper cover under one arm, I read the message twice, then walked around the car. There were no cracks in the headlight and no dents in the metal framework. Repair seemed possible even for someone useless in the face of a leaking faucet. With only a few well-landed kicks, the rubber cover went back into place.
We drove home, the two of us. I left the car to recover in the driveway, carried my packages inside, and pulled out the phone number. The Golden Rule would expect me to call and explain that no harm had been done. I dialed.
Ann and I had a lovely conversation. I expressed my appreciation for her honesty; and she expressed her mortification and relief. We agreed that good souls continue to walk this earth. Under other circumstances, it might have been the start of a friendship; her voice was musical, and she sounded about my age. Under these particular circumstances, it seemed clear that enough was enough.
The next afternoon, Ann’s insurance company called. Apparently, she had phoned in an accident report as she drove away. In an equally musical voice, the representative said they wanted to help me. “Is this some dream?” I thought, “They want to help me . “ More than one good soul walks the earth.
As it happened, there was no need for their services; all was well. The representative was relieved, no doubt for several reasons, and after saying goodbye, I headed outside immediately. The car was waiting to hear everything.
Elissa Ely writes about seniors/baby boomers for The Belmont Voice. She is a community psychiatrist.
