Junk, junk, junk, Macy’s catalog, junk, bill, bill, bill.
I toss the catalog in the outside garbage can on the way in to my house, because it stinks like what I imagine The Situation must smell like.
I head into my kitchen and pull out some cinnamon gummy bears as I stand over my trash can and open the mail.
Water bill, internet bill. An invitation to go deeper into debt, courtesy of CapitalOne.
Vonage wants my business.
So does AARP for some reason.
How insulting, I’m only 27 for Christ’s sake.
I toss it in the bin and slit open the next envelope.
“Hmmm, it’s from Allstate...” I mumbled out loud.
They are probably offering to protect me from Mayhem, at a better rate then I am currently paying to State Farm.
I open it.
What. The. Fuck?
I almost choke on my Cinna-bears.
I am holding what appears to be a collection notice in regards to a HIT and RUN accident back in July.
Oh fucking shit.
$982 in damages?
For a moment I struggle to understand exactly what I am looking at, and then it dawns on me.
“No he DIDN’T...” I growled.
I am going to kill Shane Peters.
~~Back in July~~
Fold, tear, staple, stack.
Fold, tear, staple, stack.
I was at work, just finishing up the accounts payable and fighting the urge to crawl under my desk and nap when I heard the door to our suite open.
Heels clicked across our unmanned reception area’s tile floor, then were muffled by the carpet as the visitor suddenly appeared at my office door.
We have worked in the same office building for over 5 years and never spoken to each other.
Our complex has 10 suites in it.
A bunch of white collar offices including a handful of lawyers, a Realtor, a dentist, some accountants, an auto repossession company, and the insurance place right next to me.
Sometimes when Charles Peters slams a filing cabinet in his office, stuff falls off the shelves in mine.
I work for the Realtor.
Shane and I pass in the hallway on occasion. I smile politely, he nods.
We don’t talk.
Sometimes I go into the break room to nuke my overpriced organic Non-GMO lunch and run into him taking some leftover Chinese food out of the microwave.
Sometimes it’s Mexican.
It’s always in a Styrofoam container.
He doesn’t acknowledge me.
It’s not that I dislike the man, it’s just that you can tell he thinks he is better than everyone else because he parks his Jaguar in the middle of 2 parking spaces so that it has 4 feet of clearance around it at all times.
“Hi...” I heard his velvet voice say.
I looked up at him expectantly.
He’s leaned against the door frame like he was posing for a cover shoot for GQ.
I had a hard time keeping saliva from pooling in the corners of my mouth.
Yeah, he is pretty.
“Do you happen to know who owns the Red Isuzu Rodeo in our lot?” He asked.
“Yeah... I do...” I said. ′Uh oh... Did I leave my lights on?′ I thought to myself.
“Did you know that you hit someone in the parking lot this morning?” He asked.
′Come again?′ I asked internally. “Uh... No, I didn’t... Wait, you mean, someone hit me?” I asked.
I thought maybe he had misstated what he was trying to say.
“No, you hit another car in the parking lot...” He said.
I actually laughed. This was absurd.
“Nope, wasn’t me...” I said shaking my head in disbelief.
He just looked at me. I noticed that his eyes were a stunning shade of green.
“You have a dent in your bumper...” He pointed out.
Good job Sherlock.
Yeah, I have a dent in my bumper, and the paint has oxidized off the hood, I am missing one of the roof rack handles and there is a huge bleach stain on the floor in the backseat.
I probably drive a shittier car than anyone else here. But I love it. It goes everywhere, rides just a little bouncy, and I know my way around the engine.
A few months ago my neighbor’s girlfriend parked her Honda CRX in front of my house, halfway blocking my driveway.
The next morning when I left I told myself to shimmy around it and then totally forgot and rolled right into it.
My bumper dented and she has a nice ding over her right rear tire.
She didn’t care, I didn’t care.
We didn’t make a thing out of it.
I can not tell you how many times I have been harassed by guys in parking lots who offer to pop the dent out for me, no trouble at all.
I turn them down. I can handle that myself. I just haven’t done it yet. It’s on my to-do list.
“Yes, I have a dent in my bumper... It’s been there for months... I hit a friend of mine back in May...” I explained.
Shane Peters looked at me like I was full of shit.
Mark appeared next to him.
“It’s true, she’s had that dent for ages...” Mark said.
Thank you, Mark.
Shane looked disappointed. “Oh... I thought I solved the mystery... It lined up perfectly...” He said.
“No, sorry...” I said. Actually I wasn’t, but it seemed like the appropriate thing to say. “Who got hit?” I asked.
“The dentist’s wife, Mrs. Holt...” Shane answered.
“Bummer... And no one saw anything?” I asked.
I know for sure no one saw me hit her car, because I didn’t.
“Apparently not... Well, sorry for the inconvenience...” Shane looked at the name tag I have on my desk. “Phoebe Svanna...” Shane said.
Then he turned and vacated my doorway.
I heard the tap-tap-tap as he crossed the tile on his way out.
I smiled back.
“That was weird...” I said, going back to my fold-tear-staple-stack routine.
“What was that all about? I only heard part of it...” Mark plopped down in the extra chair near my desk.
“So, you didn’t hear him TELL me that I hit someone this morning? As if I could have and not known?” I reflected.
It was odd the way he had asked me about it. Sort of like informing me that my shirt was on inside out, which does, admittedly, happens sometimes.
Like he was being ever so helpful by pointing it out to me.
What an ass.
“Did you hit someone?” Mark asked.
But I could tell he was joking.
Mark Cruz is a real estate agent here in the office.
We sell foreclosed properties and he is the broker’s right hand man.
We’ve been coworkers and friends for years.
“No… I think I would have remembered that...” I said.
He reached into my candy dish and grabbed some Cinna-bears.
“So, is someone saying they saw you hit Mrs. Holt?” He asked.
“I don’t think so...” I answered.
Honestly, I think Mr. Bed-head looked around the parking lot, saw my rusted and battered Rodeo and decided I was a likely candidate to hit someone and not say anything about it.
Not the case.
When I roll my Rodeo into something, I leave a note.
“Well, I’ve got your back, Fees... I remember when that dent showed up and I know it wasn’t today...” Mark said with a soft a smile.
“Thank you, Mark...” I said returning his smile.
“No prob...” He said.