I Meet The Best Strangers

JUL

16

I Meet The Best Strangers

I must have been an incompetent and possibly maniacal school bus driver in a past life because it’s staggering the number of times I get hit by out-of-control cars. Not me, my car. While parked!

Every single car I’ve owned or leased, over the past 30 years has taken a brutal sucker punch. At least once. Usually three times.

Wonkers Collision, my go-to auto repair place is practically a 2nd home. I know them on a first-name basis, I know their children, their histories, their favorite Subway sandwiches, their bad romances. The last time I was there I was picking up a different car that had been pummeled by a drunk truck driver; exactly one week before the Covid shut down, so it only makes sense that as soon as things start opening up, I’m back at Wonkers. In fact, when I called, Vera, the manager and more a less a relation, was not at all surprised.

“Rhonda! It’s about time.”

For the sake of brevity, this particular parked car scenario encompasses all the drama in one post. Story here. here

Years, ten leases, and fifteen crash mishaps later:

This time, I had just parked on a side street off of La Jolla and 3rd, preparing to have a social distance outdoor lunch. Like many, I was quite looking forward to patio dining with a friend, maskless.

Collecting my bag, keys, phone and feeling a sense of joy and calm, there is a very loud BANG. At first, I thought it was an earthquake, then looked in my rearview and saw a shiny white Mercedes moving alongside my car. It wasn’t enough this person rammed into my bumper, they were intent on tearing apart the passenger side of my car.

“What the fuck! HEY! Stop already!”

The Mercedes, now doing a kind of fishtail all over the road finally hits the brakes. My side mirror hits the ground with an infuriating thud.

I’m a bit reluctant to get out of my car because I have no idea what I’m dealing with. The Mercedes windows are blacked out and this person is revving the engine. Suddenly I’m in a cheap TV horror movie where the car is the bad guy.

I reach under my car seat where I keep a heavy flashlight or smash light. After watching my mother deal with years of road rage, and then experiencing years of my own, a girl needs protection. I’m getting my Angie Dickenson on. Something mother taught me as a child. Story here.

Just one of the many self-defense techniques my mother taught me.

This one also comes in handy ^ ^ ^

Anyhoo, just as I grip the smash light, I see this frail, elderly woman start walking toward me, apologizing, wringing her hands, shaking.

I get out of my car to help her.

“I’m so sorry. I don’t know what happened. Maybe I blacked out. It’s probably just a scratch. Let me give you some money. I have the tremors.”

This poor woman had to be in her late 70’s. Frail but lively, and truly sorry. She kept apologizing. I felt bad.

“Let’s just exchange information and go from there.” I was taking pictures and doing my due diligence. At this point in my life, I could be an insurance adjuster. My car had a few bad scrapes and looked like your basic cosmetic fix.

She was pulling hundred-dollar bills out of her purse.

“This should do it. I don’t want my husband to know. Take as much as you need. Also, he’s legally blind.”

Her hands are shaking so much the hundreds are flapping around, falling onto the ground. I know she wanted to get rid of me, but I felt an obligation to her, to her health, her well-being.

By the way, had it been some young dude I would’ve cut a deal, but not before calling my attorney. In exchange for not reporting, I will take many millions and an overall open-ended deal that matches Steven Speilberg’s. Alas, those types never hit my car.

“I don’t want money. Are you okay? Can I get you some water?”

“I’m fine. It’s the tremors. I’ve got the tremors.”

She had a thick New York accent, so it was “I’ve got the tremas.” And she kept repeating this.

I didn’t want to be rude but who should be driving with hand tremors, or any tremors. I knew enough that this was neurological, possibly Parkinson’s, unless she was on heavy medication. In both instances, probably not a good idea to operate heavy machinery. But I get it, I mean with the blind husband, stacks of medical bills, I’m guessing they don’t have a chauffeur.

She keeps pulling wads of cash out of her huge, leather bag, dropping all sorts of items onto the street. I pick up lipstick tubes, pills bottles, piles of receipts, dental floss.

“That’s not necessary. We can have insurance handle it. Can I give you a ride home?”

I assess the damage to her front bumper which is hanging on by a wire.

“Also I’m pretty sure your husband is going to notice. Blind or not, if you take him on a drive, he’ll hear the bumper dragging. Then… “How’s his hearing?”

“Not so good.”

My friend is texting me, “Where are you?”

I text back: “My car was hit. I’m fine but I feel so bad for the elderly woman. Should I bring her to lunch? She’s shaking.”

Then:

“Are you sure I can’t get you a cab? an Uber” I’ll drive you home. Do you need a meal?”

“Thank you for being so nice. Most people would be screaming. I’m from the Bronx, I know. Anyway, I hit your car and just feel awful but I was avoiding that huge garbage truck coming toward me. It could’ve been much worse.”

Yeah, okay, my elderly friend not only has the tremas but she’s delusional. First, there was no truck. Second, had I gotten out of the car, she would’ve dragged my ass to Melrose.

But I felt so bad, so we left it alone, and off she drove, dragging her bumper.

At first glance, it did look like a scratch on my car, which I had now owned for a full week as my lease had just expired. The car had 50 miles on it. I digress…

I meet my friend for our lunch and clearly, she’s been isolated too long.

After a fun lunch, and our “the world has gone mad” shared experiences, I head back to my new car. I push the ignition button.

Every single bell, light, and whistle went off. It was undrivable. Locked down. This new car and all that spiffy technology won’t let you drive if it senses there is danger. Which kind of pisses me off. Shouldn’t that be up to me?

Back in the shop… Vera from Wonkers explains this frail woman who was avoiding an invisible truck rammed my car so hard that she cracked the axel. Among many other hidden mysteries that lie beneath a car underbelly. It would cost at least seven grand to fix.

***THIS is why you don’t take money from people who hit you. Just sayin.

Nonetheless, it was like a reunion. Not just with Vera and the gang, but with my new friends from the Bronx.

The friendly Rubins came to the shop. Myra with her tremors and Irv the blind husband. They wanted to be sure I was okay. The Rubins drove up in the Mercedes, the bumper taped together. Irv wore thick glasses, the kind you might kill bugs with under a hot sun. In any case, he seemed fit and alert. He was so grateful I had been kind to his wife. This apparently was not her first rodeo and she’d been a victim of road rage many times.

“These people out there, yelling at my wife. I’m certain this is what gave her the tremas.” He too was for the Bronx.

In the end, I would become friends with this couple, I heard all about their grandkids, their cruises to Alaska, their initial marriages, their divorces, six between them, and how they had met on Facebook after realizing they went to the same high school. What are the chances? Anyway, now they are basically newlyweds at 75. They invited me over for dinner.

Irv: You must come. Myra makes the pot roast of all pot roasts. My kids don’t like her roast but hers do. We all live in the same neighborhood. Come. Bring your family. Take my private number.

I take the number but with no intention of ever eating pot roast. Myra grips my arm.

Myra: Are you related to the Talbot Clothing Empire?

She so wanted me to say yes, that I am a descendant of the great Nancy Orr.

I had forgotten about this, the Talbot clothing line question. First, the clothes are hideous, and second, I had been asked this question many times throughout my life after a while I would slip into complete fabrications for my own entertainment. But I had not been asked in the last ten years. Normally I would just say no, not that Talbot. But sometimes I would say yes. I’m the heir to a great fortune. Nancy Orr Talbot was my grandmother. As kids, we’d go to their summer home in Charlevoix.

We’d swim, fish, boat, and bake. Nancy was not only an incredible fashion icon and business maverick but also an amazing cook. Grandad Rudolph not so much. Without Nancy’s forward-thinking, Rudolph probably would have stayed in the UK shining shoes.

Certain people, that knew the Talbot history would always ask, “is it true about the red doors?”

Me: Absolutely. The red front door is a long-standing tradition in our family. Including my own. I live in the Trousdale Estates and we had one of the original red doors flown in from Europe, then used it at the front gate, just before you drive a mile to reach the main house. I’d whip out a picture.

Me: It’s difficult to see but the door is on the other side of the estate. Which leads to a barn, next to the helicopter pad.

But I saved my fables for a certain kind of superficial person that wants to know your status (worth) in life. The more detail I provided, the more ingratiated they would become. This avaricious moron inevitable would then say: “Oh we must get together. Let’s exchange numbers. I’ll have you over for tea.”

Why do these certain people think “tea” sounds more upper crust than “coffee or water?”

Meanwhile, I’ve known them for ten minutes. My reply is always the same.

Me: It’s against family policy to invite strangers into our world. We put great emphasis on our privacy. (I pronounce this priv-a-see.)

The greedy interloper would always respond: “I know what you mean. But take my number. I’m discreet.”

I mean EEWW.

But the Rubins were lovely people so I told her Talbot was a common name.

Irv: “But there is nothing common about you.”Then he winked.

I mean, how can you not love this couple?

Irv took my hands into his and teared up. “Thank you again for being nice to my bride. She has not had an easy life.”

With that, the ordeal was over.

I sometimes wonder about them, hopefully not driving anymore, and hopefully now with an uber account.

I also wonder who designs Talbot clothing. For the record, I may or may not be related, I will never give anyone a straight answer, but I will admit I have nothing to do with the clothing designs.

(Talbots)

The moral of this entire story is don’t park on La Jolla and 3rd.

Rhonda Talbot weighing in on car crashes, hit-and-runs, kindness, families, grandparents, pausing, road rage, Talbots Clothing, strangers, authenticity, superficiality, Nancy Orr, business maverick, red doors, fashion, Charlevoix, and ugly sweaters.