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One day a stranger hit me. And then he wasn't a stranger anymore.
Reversal of Fortune
He gave me three different names. But for our purposes, let's just settle on Ramon. Knowing someone is a pretty elusive concept anyway, and Ramon and I never got bogged down in particulars. Even now about the only thing I know we have in common is that we live in the same city. Then, for a few minutes, we were in the same place at the same time. And Ramon ended up owing me something.
Anyone familiar with daytime street parking in the north end of the Warehouse District downtown knows about the little game with Minneapolis traffic control--the endless cycle of tire chalking and hour-by-hour spot-jockeying. So I wasn't particularly surprised one afternoon last month when I found yet another ticket on my car. I'd been parked in a one-hour zone on North Third Street for all of about 75 minutes. Bastards, I thought, like I always do. I decided to move my car anyway.
Sitting four deep at a red light, I waited to turn onto Washington Avenue. There was a row of diagonal parking on the curb to my right. Then I noticed that one of the parked cars had gone into reverse and was backing right toward my driver's door. I hit the horn and watched the event unfold in slow motion: The late-model sedan kissed the side of my car, and kept going, pressing deeper into the door. Then it stopped.
I got out of my car, a red Monte Carlo, and walked around the back as the offending vehicle pulled back into its spot. A young woman, pale with a heavy-metal frizz to her high red hair, stepped out of the driver's side. A young man, tan-skinned, with his hair shorn down to a round fuzz, opened the passenger door. He barked at her to give him the keys and ordered her to get back into the car on his side.
"You all right, bro?" he said, with an accent.
"Yeah, I'm fine. You guys all right?"
"Yeah, yeah. What you want to do, bro?"
I'm not a magnanimous sort in general. And I also have a knack for getting into harmless automotive bumps--no fewer than five in the last 10 years. But as long as there's no damage to the car or any passenger, I let things ride. Why involve the cops and insurance companies? This time, though, my door was creased pretty good, and would need to be fixed.
"Well, we're going to have to exchange insurance info," I said to him, as I surveyed the scene. The guy was Latino, and decked out in what could be called hip-hop wear, an oversized Pittsburgh Steelers jersey draping his tattooed body like a mini-dress. Shorts. Hi-tops. He had rings, earrings, chains, a bracelet. I looked back at the car, a silver Taurus, good shape. There was a pause. "You don't have insurance, do you?" I finally said.
"No, but I've got a cell phone," he said. "I'm good for it."
Right, I thought. I noticed my car was still blocking him in and I tried to commit the license plate--Minnesota--to memory. I introduced myself, and shook his hand. He gave me a name, Ramon. Then a second, Rodney, and then Tommy.
"Okay, Tommy, you've got a cell phone," I said. "Pull it out of your pocket and give me the number. I want to see it ring." No problemo, bro. He spoke the numbers--319 area code, I noticed--and I dialed it on my cell phone. The phone bleated a little electronic ring, as an image of a little American Flag waved on the LCD screen. I asked where he lived; he gave me a Lake Street address.
"See, I told you I'm good for it, bro," Ramon said, matter-of-factly.
Now what? Ramon was anxious, wanting to leave the scene, saying he'd be toast if any cops showed up. I told him to follow me, and we got in our cars and pulled around the corner onto Washington.
Did I want to trust Ramon? Yes, I did. But, in fact, what I really thought was that Ramon was going to rip me off. When we parked, Ramon darted out of the car toward me. "Look, bro, she's not my girlfriend, she's got no license, and it ain't my car," he said, slapping one index finger on the other.
"Whoa, you've got yourself in a situation, don't you?" I said. Ramon wanted to go to a body shop nearby, where he'd pay me whatever the estimate was. I balked, and told him I was in the middle of my workday. No deal.
Then he said he had 500 bucks, cash.
"Oh yeah?" I responded. "I'll take that cash, bro." I don't think I'd ever used the word "bro" before. Ramon went back to the car, returned, and handed me five $100 bills.
I told Ramon that I would take the money and get an estimate. But I had one condition: He'd have to take my phone calls. If the estimate came in less than $500, I told him, I'd call him and give him back the difference. If it were more, I'd expect him to take my call, and agree to pay the rest. Otherwise, I told him, "I've got the make of the car, I've got the license plate, and I've got your cell phone." No answer, I'd call it in.
"You can't call this in, bro," Ramon pleaded. "Whatever it takes, man, I'm good for it."
Right, I nodded. I wasn't convinced. I told him he would hear from me the next morning. Then I took the money and drove away.
Before I could even find a new parking spot, my cell phone rang. He was tailing me. "Don't call this in, bro, I'm good for it," he repeated. "I've got your number too, now."