This trip was almost perfect until I side swiped a pole with my rental car (I wasn’t going to count the surreal late night hotel check-in). Backing out of the tightly packed lot of my new apartment rental headquarters, I veered towards the right and heard the most disconcerting noise – you know, something along the lines of BAM!

I sat there for a moment, more embarrassed than shocked, and directed my attention to the entrance of the rental office. Did anyone see? I wondered. I was more concerned with my image than the damage that might have occurred on the black Mazda 3.

Not bothering to get out because I just wasn’t ready to deal, I cruised along the highway for a good 20 miles until my bladder nagged at me to pull over and hit the loo at a fast food joint. I was forced to face the damage.

“Ok, here goes,” I say to myself, taking in a deep breath as I slide out of the driver’s side. I gingerly sneak a peek at the door.

“Oh, fuck me!” I gasp. It wasn’t good. It could have been worse but it could have also been way, way better. The scrapes and “bruises” had nothing on the massive dent that allowed me a narrow view of its…internal mechanisms. You could say the door was slightly ajar.

I call my insurance company to file a claim. Like, three days later. Rigor mortis on metal = rust.

“Yeah, someone hit me in the parking lot while I was shopping and away from the car,” I tell the nice lady on the phone.

I am relieved to be informed that my deductible will “only” be $200 (rather than $500) because it wasn’t my fault. And then I am instructed to file a police report.

“Well, you don’t have to but it would help your claim. We might or might not need it.”

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck!

You know how lies go. You tell one, it spawns more. After much debate (and, surprisingly, a little bit of guilt), I hit redial and ‘fess up. The receptionist responds with a hearty laugh but the claims lady? She wasn’t so amused.

I hope Enterprise has a payment plan.