Sunday, January 15, 2017

It Bumped My Car





I’d set out to find a Peet’s that was supposed to be in the Laguna Honda mall area.  Cresting the hill I slowed and considered the pharmacies and restaurants and then a Starbucks.  The parking turn off beckoned but I had a Peet’s logo pinned up in my mind.  There’s another mini mall after this, right?  And then we were trafficked out onto Portola Drive.  No.  I did not want to go to Diamond Heights and soon it was clear heading along the curve before Mount Davidson Park that I would never see this Peet’s.  I began to tell my colleague of the remarkable views he was about to experience.  And almost simultaneously as Portola turned to Market St. my mind considered the parking burden I’d just assumed for myself.  Then I could settle in to remembering that I’d promised I’d call someone in about twenty minutes, roughly nineteen minutes ago.

We continued along Market and I pointed out the Castro and the tremendous rainbow flag and all it’s smaller facsimiles that run down the block.  Later that night I’d be reminded that the Castro had once been a Swedish neighborhood.  Once again I am driving by memory, reigniting routines that are a dozen years dormant.  There’s that enormous Safeway and the Armory.  Every block demands I read the text, written in the street, “TROLLY ONLY”  “MUST TURN RIGHT” I continue along towards the curb, trying to stay out of the way of trollies and aggressive Uber drivers.  “They all must have stickers here.  All the Uber drivers.” My friend points out. 

Somewhere beyond the Civic Center I’ve reached the end of the ride on Market Street.  It’s trollies, and cabs only beyond this point, and after a quick right I do what I already knew I’d have to proceed to: left on to Mission.  My friend, rather suddenly decides it would be a good idea to visit a BMW products store that we have just passed.  The parking. The call. The request.  “Well, OK. Sure. Let - me - find - a - place to park.”  There.  OK.  Someone is pulling out of a metered spot just before me and I pull up beside.   “Perfect.  I’ll do my call, you visit the store.”  I found a dollar’s worth of change, which I assume will only last for a few minutes only and my friend tosses them in the meter before he heads off. 



The meters green lights continue to flash as I learn about the China business of the person on the other end.  The lights begin chirping red somewhat sooner than I’d hoped.  I begin to envision myself jumping out to confront a traffic cop ticketing me with a credit card extended and them saying “It’s too late.  Policy.  Here’s your ticket.”  The fella behind me has just pulled out and, with greater traffic savvy than I would have assumed I had, I noticed his meter was still blinking green.  I threw the car in reverse.   “And whom did you say the other competitor was?”  I go check and this dude just left twenty-four more minutes of time.  I settle back into my seat and continue the conversation. 

An SUV quickly takes my old spot and as it backs slowly up to me, squeezing its frame behind the lip of the curve it bumped my car.  Lightly, but notably.  I am trying to concentrate on my call but when I have no acknowledgement from the driver I step out and have a look at the front, more to gesture than to actually accumulate any information.  This would be the beginning of a pointless and potentially costly exchange were this to have just happened in Beijing.  I stoop over, somewhat overtly.  There has been no scratch certainly. 





Back on my call, there are intertwining tracks of thought: “so I will actually be there this Friday and we should definitely meet up” . . . Are you going to make eye contact Ma’am?. . . This is China driving residue, release it.  A woman with tremendous shades steps out after having sat there, post bump, for five minutes, hikes up her jeans and begins talking loudly with her friend as she walks off across the street.  Off to the right a group of people in makeshift uniforms suggesting that they are support for the homeless team, are helping a bearded older man with his luggage, which they push in a wheel chair.                                                     

No comments:

Post a Comment