it was uncomfortable to state my feelings initially. but once i did, everything became simple. since i was calmly certain i didn’t hit—then immediately forget about hitting—a car, nothing he said mattered.
there was no need to placate the men so they wouldn’t hate me or become my enemies. they didn’t even need to believe me. i knew my experience and that was enough.
over the years my middle name has become “stonewall.” not for everyone and not in all situations. but my tolerance for nonsense has diminished with time.
in this instance, my demeanor said, “prove it, mofo.”
so i sat, unyielding in the literal and proverbial driver’s seat, while he tried. each ludicrous suggestion was met with a gut-instinct inspired rebuttal:
“but i didn’t feel anything.”
“i don’t feel comfortable with this.”
“it doesn’t feel right.”
i held my ground even as “the scrapes are deep” evolved into “maybe we don’t need to involve the insurance company at all.”
trusting my instincts made my defense bulletproof. what could he say, no, you did feel something? after all, he wasn’t a hypnotist. or maybe that’s his next scheme but he’s not ready to perform yet.
plus, the intuition kept me from getting mired in accusations. by keeping thoughts out of it entirely, i avoided any interpretations about him. who knows where “i think you’re wrong…” would’ve ended?
i wasn’t even concerned with his wrongness. all i cared about was the disconnect between my experience and his claim. since the two didn’t match i didn’t, and wouldn’t, buy it.
eventually i was at a loss for what to say. i fixed him with the penetrating stare i unleash on all the disappointing people in my life.
when he saw i wasn’t budging he said, “i have your license plate number so you’ll be hearing from my attorney.”
my first thought on hearing this: it would be a miracle if you could afford one.
thought two: that sounds ideal. i’ll take a phone conversation with someone who may have a law degree any day over a scumbag coaxing me out of my car on an otherwise lovely Sunday afternoon.
until then the scrawny accomplice had quietly smoked a cigarette. but as they got back into their car he called out, “this is hit and run!”
i didn’t hit anything, moron.
come back on Monday for the conclusion