vituperation

Monday

“Oh yeah,” the service manager said as he hunkered down to get a better look at my bumper cover. “Looks like she just clipped you.”

“Yep, just a little tap, thank goodness.” I gestured at the bumper, despite the fact that he wasn’t even looking my way, for I am a twitchy bastard when I talk.

He shook his head at the bumper and turned to look up at me. “Doesn’t that just piss you off?”

Well, no.

“Nah,” I said. “Getting mad about it doesn’t do anything to fix it, so why waste the energy?”

Unlike, of course, all the problems that are solved by my fury toward the slow people on cell phones in front of me when I’m driving.

The service manager stood and poked a cigarette between his lips. He lit it, took a deep drag, and reflected for a moment before exhaling.

“I guess you’re right,” he said. “Life’s too short, huh?”

“Exactly. She didn’t mean to hit me, there’s not much damage, and she was nice about it. It’s hard to be mad, you know? Fixing it should be a snap. Now, the insurance adjuster, on the other hand… I expect to be pissed off by him.”

He nodded. “Yeah, he’s gonna try to screw you. They always do.”

“So you can just replace the cover, right?”

“We’ll have to get it painted first. They come from the factory in black. But yeah, we’ll just replace the cover.” He pulled from the cigarette. “Unless there’s damage underneath, of course. That’s a five mile an hour bumper, you know.”

“I’m pretty sure she wasn’t going that fast,” I said. “It really wasn’t that bad.”

He went inside to get started on the repair quote, leaving me out by my vehicle. I watched people while I waited, because it’s something I enjoy. Ten or fifteen minutes later, he came back out and suggested I return to work because he didn’t know how long it would take the paint shop to get back with him with an estimate.

Three hours later, after calling back to find out when the quote would be ready (I was just walking over to the fax machine to send it), I had the quote in my hand.

$735.

It boggles the mind, doesn’t it? One tiny little tap, cracking a piece of plastic, and bam: seven hundred and thirty-five dollars.

Tuesday

“I have the quote from the dealership,” I said to the adjuster, trying to be helpful.

He took it and looked it over. When he saw the total at the bottom, he whistled.

“I don’t know if our system will pay that much,” he told me.

Oh, I think it will, I thought. Or I’ll have to get medieval on your ass.

He took a few pictures of the damaged area with a digital camera, then opened the back of his van to reveal a desk, complete with chair, laptop with cellular modem, and a printer. Being a geek, I was immediately impressed, and we spent several minutes talking about his setup.

His system quoted $598 for the repairs.

I prepared my can of whoopass for opening on him.

“I know it’s less than your dealership quote, but it’s because they’re subcontracting out the paint job. See?” He pointed to the dealership quote. “They’ve rolled some profit into that. The price for the part is identical, and the labor’s pretty close. If you take our estimate to any bodyshop around here instead of the dealership, I guarantee you they’ll do it for our price.”

Oh. Well, that’s different.

“Okay,” I said. “I can do that.”

“And if they find any more damage, just tell them to give us a call and someone’ll come back out to assess it.”

I took the quote and went back to my office, figuring I’d stop at the big Chevy dealership nearby — they have a complete bodyshop there, and it’s on the way home — to set up an appointment. I put the can of whoopass back in my desk and got back to work. I was trying to figure out a niggling problem with a socket subroutine a couple of hours later when the phone rang.

“Mr. And3erson, this is Jethro from [dealership name redacted]. I just wanted to let you know that bumper you ordered is here.”

“But I didn’t order a bumper,” I said. “I came by for a quote on a bumper.”

“Let me let you talk to the service manager. He probably knows what’s going on.”

I listened to music while I held. I hadn’t realized it, but apparently I’ve lost that lovin’ feelin’.

“Hi Fred, this is Chris.”

“I understand my bumper’s already there,” I said.

“Yep, sure is.”

“I didn’t order a bumper. I got a quote from one. It even says ‘estimate only’ in the place where I’d normally sign it to authorize the work.”

“Sure does. I knew how much you wanted it fixed so I went ahead and ordered it for you. We were just about to send it over to the paint shop.”

“I appreciate that, but there’s a problem. The insurance company’s estimate is about $140 less than yours.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

I heard papers rustling as he got out his copy of the quote. I explained what the adjuster told me about the paint subcontracting. I listened to him fiddle about — not unlike my wicked uncle Ernie — with the paperwork, scritching and scratching for a moment.

“I think I can knock some off our price,” he said. “I can’t get down to $598, but I can do better than $735.”

“How much better?”

Scritchedy scratch.

“I can do it for about $630. How’s that?”

I was taking the can of whoopass out of my desk when I remembered it: the numerous times I’d told him on Monday that my plans were to get my vehicle fixed at the dealership, even if I had to sue the good neighbor people to get reimbursed. While I hadn’t actually told him to order the bumper, I had made my intentions of where the repairs would be done crystal clear.

Plus, we’re only talking about $35 here. Who gets bent out of shape over $35?

“Send that bumper to the paint shop,” I said, dropping the can of whoopass back into the drawer.

Wednesday

The check for the full amount of the neighborly quote arrived in the mail. Sounds like they have changed since my dad dealt with them.

Last night, Robyn and I stood in the kitchen preparing our evening snacks. She had a tiny bag of popcorn popping in the microwave, and I was busy mixing natural peanut butter and honey together in a bowl. Peanut butter and honey sandwiches are the shit.

Nature intervened briefly and I broke wind. It was a small thing, and any sound it may have produced was easily covered by the popping corn in the microwave.

I finished my stirring and carried the now empty peanut butter jar to the trashcan. When I turned back to get my sandwich, I caught sight of Robyn standing by the microwave. The look on her face was both perplexed and thoughtful at the same time.

“What?” I asked.

She shook it off. “Nothing. For a minute there, I thought I smelled something like curry.”

I just smiled and said, “Really? I didn’t smell anything.”