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."

Again, I told him the deal was simple: If he was good for the money, there would be no problem. "Okay. I'm good for it; you've got my word," he said, and clicked off.

Five minutes later, Ramon called again, and said the same thing.

 

The next day I took the car to a dealership in the west metro that I had dealt with before. I knew one guy in the body shop, and I emphasized that this was a cash deal, no insurance. Keep the bill low. I tried to save Ramon a little money.

The guys in the shop agreed that my car would need a new door, which would cost $400. That and the rest of the repair would run me $1,600.

I hadn't really thought that $500 wouldn't cover it. Angry and desperate, I dialed Ramon on my cell phone from the dealership. Someone picked up on the other end.

"Tommy," I said. Nothing. "Ramon?" Silence. "This is the guy whose car you hit yesterday."

"Oh, yeah, bro, what's up?" came the response. He sounded friendly. I told him the total of the estimate, and that he owed me $1,100.

"That's cool," he said. "Where do you want to meet?"

I was stunned. I never thought I'd actually speak to the guy again, let alone see him. And he was going to give me more money? He didn't even want to see the estimate. I suggested we meet at the site of the accident. Ramon said he wasn't going back there. I was worried that I'd have to meet him at his house or apartment. But I needed the money. Finally, he said, "How about the Spyhouse?"

"The coffee shop on Nicollet?" Was this guy serious?

"Yeah, I like that place," Ramon answered. "I'll meet you there right now." Okay, a public place. I told him I'd be there in 30 minutes.

I parked my car a few blocks away from the coffee shop, and walked in exactly a half-hour after the phone call. I found no sign of him. I grabbed a community newspaper and pretended to read it at a table inside. It was a clear and warm day, and most patrons were on the sidewalk outdoors. I was afraid that he wasn't going to show up. I was also afraid that he would show up--with friends--and settle our account through unsavory means.

After 15 minutes, I called Ramon again. He said he was on his way. Five minutes later, I saw him on the sidewalk. I watched him pull out his cell phone to call me, but I ignored the ring and walked up behind him instead. Ramon smiled and shook my hand--an awkward soul shake of some sort.

We walked inside. Ramon took the first open table, which was near the front and open to the rest of the room. He asked for the pen from my shirt pocket, and counted out five $20 bills. He would repeat this 10 times, each time marking a line on the edge of the newspaper I had.

I said I never thought I'd see him again. He answered without pausing: "I told you I was good for it, bro." Flipping through so much cash in public made me nervous. I asked him if he was from Iowa, which drew a quizzical look. I told him the area code on his cell phone was from eastern Iowa.

"No, bro," he chuckled, "I ain't from Iowa."

For whatever reason, I told him I knew some people in Iowa anyway.

I kept folding up the wads of twenties and stuffing them in the pocket of my shorts. Ramon stopped at $1,000. "Look, bro, I'm a little light," he said. "Can you float me the extra hundred today?"

I looked at him. "Ramon, I think we're good, bro."

As we got up, I asked him if there would be any funny shit outside the coffee shop. "No, no, no, man. We're cool." He told me he was a record producer. I told him I was a musician.

"Oh yeah?" Ramon said, arching an eyebrow. "You want some ganj, bro?"

I declined, thinking the money was probably enough for one day. Then we did another soul shake. We said we'd see each other around, but we knew we wouldn't. And I think we were both, in our own way, glad about that fact. Our 24-hour moment was over.