So, I’m sitting in the parking lot at the Flatbush Avenue P.C. Richard’s waiting for Cody, and I see this white Jag trying to pull out of a space. Crank the wheel to the right, I’m yelling, but he can’t hear me so he backs into a parked navy minivan. He pulls forward then does it again. Twice. The minivan is actually being hoisted into the air. Hey Jerk-o, I yell–this time out the window. You can’t do that. Finally he gets out of the space, puts his car in park, gets out, examines the damage he’s done to his own car, and goes to get back in. Stop, I yell and slam my door, walk towards him. You need to leave a note on that minivan. You can’t just leave.
He stares at me blankly. The passenger door to his Jag opens, a very large wild-haired woman steps out. What you say? she says. I repeat myself but with far less conviction. Watch us, she says.
I got your license plate number, I yell into the sky. In my memory I’m actually shaking my fists in the air, but surely I wasn’t that animated. Suddenly, it occurs to me that they may have a gun so I run sheepishly back to my car, roll up the windows and listen to the radio, really thankful–for the first time all day–to be alive.