Waiting in line to get out of the Kings Plaza parking garage, daydreaming and thinking if a ten I had on me would be enough, I suddenly felt a bump from the back. The hit was gentle, almost polite, so it took me a second to wrap my mind around what had happened. The next moment, I felt rage boiling up inside of me, and almost got scared. I got out of the car, slamming the door, partially because I was pissed, but also because, on some level, I felt that the situation called for it. Protocol. A blue, early 90’s Mazda looked like it was attached to my bumper. It pulled back, as if letting me survey the damage. To my surprise, there was barely a scratch.

I finally looked into the other car. A tall, skinny, pleasant-looking black man in a black overcoat and a woman I took to be his wife got out. I gave them a dirty look, again, because I thought I should, not because I wanted to. “I’m sorry” he finally said, “I just dropped some change on the floor and bent down to pick it up.” “I wasn’t paying attention.” I was still angry and said “I’m still calling the cops,” even though I wasn’t sure I would. “Please sir; there’s nothing on your car,” the lady said, apologetically, “don’t call.” I felt shitty for saying what I said. I looked closer at the man, and there was something about him that made me think that he was a jazz musician. It was the strangest thing; I had no idea why I was convinced of it. May be it was his fingers, long and lean. I just kept picturing him in a smoke-filled club, playing the sax.

The next minute, all of my rage had vanished. “All right; don’t worry about it,” I said to him and stuck out my right hand, impulsively. He shook it, and they said “thanks” at the same time. A white, rent-a-cop Explorer pulled up alongside us, flashing the disco-like red lights on its roof. “There’s no problem; we’re all set,” I told the dude, with a smile, before he could even finish getting out of the jeep. He pulled away, no longer flashing.

I got back into my car, feeling really good; almost happy I got hit to begin with. I looked in my rear view mirror, as I drove off. The couple still sat there, as if waiting for me to be safely out of wrecking range; out of their lives forever.