Two days ago I was running a hundred errands, including picking up snacks and Mother's Day cards at Target. Before starting off to my next destination, I was approving a final column draft in the driver's seat with the door open to the cool breeze, when a shiny red pickup pulled up behind me and a very jocular guy started asking me about all the dings — and, well, let's just call them what they are, chunks — festooning my car. "How'd you do that one, back into a light pole?" How'd you guess? My impaired attention span, writ large and scrapy in navy paint.
"How'd you like me to fix those for you? It's what I do, mobile ding repair. Body shop'll charge you $1,300." (More; I know.) He quotes me a number that's bigger than I'd like but still within the ballpark of what I think's fair for erasing these tiny (and not so tiny) bits of my careless past. "So, you'll come to my house?" "Nah, just pull right over here, give me 10 minutes, we'll fix you up."
I follow him to a less populous corner of the lot, and the tinted windows slide back on the rear cab of the truck. He's got 5 grown men stashed in there. They go to work. "We've got this special formula, our own making, takes this stuff right out. Here, let me show you." He swabs liquid from an unmarked bottle on the side of the car and, sure enough, no scratches when he's done. "You guys should do an infomercial," I tell him. (Trouble is, I can't remember if there were scratches in that precise spot when he started.)
Committed now, I find a shady spot on the kerb while Mr. Friendly and crew give my vehicle the once-over. "Sweetheart, can you look at this? Here's another one. I'll fix all these, you just include a good tip. You don't mind if I call you Sweetheart, do you?" Strange thing is, I don't; coming from him it's strangely ok.
When they're done they've covered all the "trouble spots" with a thick coat of Turtle Wax. "Leave that on for at least 24 hours, to seal the repairs." Which means: I have no idea whether Mr. Personality's mystery fluid and elbow grease have done a thing — other than leave big waxy splotches all over the car. I pay him. I tip him. Five grown men repopulate the shiny red pickup and drive off with my grocery cash and more.
What a fool I am, how ridiculous, to be taken in by a big smile, pleasant demeanor, and some too-ready, sicky-saccharine endearments. Never again. I shouldn't be let out of the house unmonitored. Ah, but the economy's so crappy, I can't feel too bad. They probably really needed the cash. Have families that depend on and landlords that anticipate their ability to socially engineer a working mom's guilt about her slow but inevitable massacre of her carpool-wheels.
This morning...I smoothed off the Turtle Wax. Mr. Charismatic really should do an infomercial. The various gouges, dings, and scrapes are 97% all better. And though I'm still a fool, I'm one with somewhat better arranged peace of mind.
Saturday, May 9, 2009 at 8:06PM 
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