On Brand New Chevy Impalas

Today is my first full day in my new apartment. It is also my last full day in my new apartment until the end of July.

Yesterday, a couple of good buddies helped me move my stuff up from Long Beach in a Budget truck I rented for the day. Small insight into the inner workings of my mind: doing new things stress me out. This was the first time I'd ever rented or driven a moving truck, so I was nervous and stressed that I was going to get in an accident. The guy at Budget didn't make things any better by looking at me like I was insane for declining the extra insurance they try and sell you. I was pretty sure my insurance covered me in a moving truck and I told him so.

I packed the truck and drove it to my new place in the heart of LA with no incidents...until I was parking it out front. As I got out of the car, my buddies, who had followed me, asked me if I was aware that I had scraped the car behind me as I was parking. I hadn't even realized it, but when I looked at the car, there were some telltale scratches on the front right bumper and side panel. Mortified, I examined the car closely. It was a brand new gray Chevy Impala with a spoiler and $500 rims. Everything about the car screamed, "As soon as he sees this, my owner will shoot you with a gun he'll pull out of the waistband of his baggy jeans."

My reaction was rather subdued on the outside, but inside I was thinking "Insurance increases, possible non-coverage, gang member, drive-by, CRAP!" What I said was, "I'll leave a note on the windshield." Hopefully, we could unload the stuff before the guy noticed the scrape, and when he called, I would be a safe distance away.

Of course, about a minute later, who should appear from the apartment across the street but a rather rough-looking gentleman smoking a hand-rolled cigarette. Yes, that is the first thing that I noticed about him. He got into his car, and I knew I had to catch him before he drove away (although I won't deny it, the thought crossed my mind to stall in the house until he drove off).

I approached the car and said "What's up buddy." That's always a great lead-off line. Who is offended by being called buddy by a complete stranger, besides possibly seventy percent of the world? My new buddy wasn't phased by it, in fact, he looked at me with the casualness of long-acquaintance, as if he was expecting me to speak to him. This was a bit off-putting, but I plowed ahead.

"Hey, I don't know if you noticed, but I scraped your car a bit with my truck."

"No you didn't," was his surprising reply. I am not sure why he decided to deny my statement, but it did present me with a second opportunity to back out of the situation. Instead, I persevered.

"Yeah, actually I did, I kinda scraped some of your paint off, c'mon man, take a look."

He got out of the car and took a look. Here is where I was bracing myself. See, if this had happen in the Orange County suburbs, some spray-tanned soccer mom or pony-tailed, balding software engineer would be screaming at me. The fact that I had no way to get my insurance information would be a huge problem, and I would probably be paying around 1000 bucks to replace the entire front bumper and side panel. But at least I would still be alive, right? I waited in trepidation as he examined his beautiful car.

"Nah, that's nothing man. Don't worry about it."

?!

"Are you sure? I feel like I should pay for the damage to your car. You should at least get my insurance information." He was visibly reluctant, but after some pressure, put my number into his Boost mobile phone and promised to call after visiting the body shop (by the way, if you've ever wondered who the heck uses Boost mobile, there's your answer). I told him to call me so I had his number, and that I would call him when I got back to my old apartment to pass on my info.

He never called. Today, I saw the car, parked in the same spot, the paint still scraped.