Posted By Kristabella on February 13, 2007
Before we get to our regularly scheduled post (ie the entertaining stuff) I would like to do a few housekeeping things. I’m having that completely overwhelming feeling right now. I feel like I have 100 things to do. Mostly it’s because tomorrow night is the Valentine’s Day pub crawl in Wrigleyville. Which means tomorrow night is shot. And then Thursday I have to drive out to Libertyville to meet with some client (who is a royal bitch) and then go to the company-sponsored happy hour. So Thursday night is shot. And I have laundry to do and packing and partying and traveling and have I mentioned I haven’t started running???? And I leave for Seattle on Sunday. So what am I doing? Obviously being productive and blogging and playing with my new phone. Which is sweet. Even though the fire red one would have been WAY cooler, and they decided to introduce it the day after I bought mine. Whatever. Free phone.
Whew! Just had to clear the air. Man I feel better. If only I could feel like I could get away with that as a post. But I feel you all would be cheated. See what I do for you?
So to continue on with weird stories about me, I thought I’d continue with another driving story. This one a tad scarier and could have had a bad ending. Thankfully I’m here to tell you all about it today. (Man, you’re really going to be disappointed. Am such a drama queen.)
Sometime back in 2003 (maybe? I’m so bad with dates.) I was minding my own business and driving to work down the El Camino Real in Northern California. This was the time when I lived in Menlo Park, so it was sometime between May 2001 and July 2003. I think. Again, bad with the dates. So maybe it was 2002. Who cares. So I was driving down El Camino right outside the Stanford Mall. As I was driving, minding my own business, I was near a light and some jack ass was driving slow. So I went in the lane next to him and passed him up. As I went to get back in front of him, the next light turned yellow. So I stopped a little suddenly, forcing him to stop. Whatevs. My bad, dude.
Apparently, he wasn’t pleased. I look in my rearview mirror and I see him making all sorts of wild gestures. I’m guessing he’s upset with me. Big deal buddy. Sorry I kind of cut you off, but I wasn’t about to run a red light just to please your green Ford Bronco ass. As I’m watching him, giggling to myself, I see him get out of the car. (Oh fuck!) I immediately begin to panic. I mean, I’m behind another car and it’s three lanes of traffic and OH MY GOD, I HAVE NOWHERE TO GO! So I do what any other self-respecting person does. I lock my doors. (Cause that’s going to stop a raging lunatic.)
He gets out and comes right up to my window, just livid as all fucking get out. Like veins popping out of his head. Steam-coming-out-of-his-ears mad. And he’s all flailing his hands at me. Banging his fists on my window. And dude! Calm the fuck down! He turns to leave, but before he does, he decides to jam his boot into the rear driver’s side door. Making a huge dent much like a crater on the moon. Full on noticeable in the side mirror. Like, he kicked a huge dent in my car door with his skanky ass boots. What! The! Fuck!! And then he gets back in his car. All the while, the light is still red and have I mentioned I HAVE NOWHERE TO GO???
(I remember looking at the faces of the other drivers. And the one lady next to me was horrified, looked at me and then inconspiciously locked her doors. I’ll never forget that. Thanks for the help.)
Finally he gets back in his car and I’m totally shaken. I mean, who does that? So as he’s following me (who does that and then follows the person?) I, being the super sleuth that I am, decide to write down his plate number and call the cops. I’m so smart I can read it backwards in the rear view mirror. Just call me Dick Tracy.
So I tell the cops what happened and that he’s still following me, give them the plate and basically stay on the phone with them until the officers are dispatched. We went through about five different towns because they are all small little towns up there in the Peninsula. (Small, but rich. And probably hold most of the wealth of Northern California in that small area. Jerry Rice and Steve Young live there, yo.) Finally the cops get ahead of us and pull me over and about 500 feet ahead of me, pull him over. The one cop stays with me, takes some photos and waits for me to ID the creep. Basically I have to drive past and ID him to make sure it’s the same wacko. And then I get to make a citizen’s arrest (weeeee!) (could so be Dick Tracy. Complete with fedora.) (Was also obsessed with Dick Tracy as a kid. I heart Warren Beatty for some odd reason.)
The whole time this ass was following me (mind you, I didn’t take any kind of straight shot to work. All kind of side streets. He was obviously following.) all I was thinking was “go ahead and follow me into the 49ers complex. I’ll make sure there are some big linemen waiting at the door for me.” Although, seriously, I wasn’t too upset because I knew if he followed me all the way to work, he was in for it. (When did I start talking like a character from a 50s cops and robbers show? And when was the last time I said robbers?) We had 24-hour security (not that they would do much) and the Security Director was an ex-cop (not that he could do much either.) Crazy McScrewloose wasn’t going to do anything once I got to the 4949. Which was good to know. (Later that day Garrison Hearst told me he would have saved me (my hero!) and wished he would have followed me to the complex. See why I wasn’t worried??)
Anyway, months later I got a note from his lawyer, telling me he was a nice guy and really didn’t mean to do it. (Yeah, sure, like Scott Peterson didn’t mean to kill his wife and unborn child.) The judge ordered him to take anger management classes and to pay me for the damages. The sleezeball lawyer even told me my estimate was too high and I needed to go to Mr. Crazy’s body shop. Um, yeah. I don’t think so.
Months and months later I got my check. And didn’t get my car fixed. (Cha-ching!) And months after that when I was rear-ended by some old broad in Stockton (not nearly as exciting. And what is up with me and car incidents??) and the body shop was replacing the bumper on her dime, the mechanic was all “I popped that dent out of that side door.” So I got a few grand in my pocket AND got the door fixed. Mostly. You can still see the dent, but not as bad as it was originally. See people, it is not good to be mean. Or to be a fucking nutjob.
And it’s all good because my car sits on the street and has already been sideswiped once. So I need it to look like crap. Then no one will bother it.
I’m also thinking maybe it’s a good thing I don’t drive every day anymore. Might not be a bad thing to have me off the street. Even though I’m always completely innocent. (Insert big, toothy grin)