Wish I knew who you were, so I could address you personally and we could talk about what happened. It was in the parking lot of Rex Hospital while I was getting some not so great news from my doctor, so I'm left wondering if the same thing happened to you and left you too shaken to navigate.
All I can tell from the damage is you were in a white vehicle. I wonder what kind it was and if you loved your car as much as I love mine. Judy Jetta was my dream car and the first new car I've ever had in my life. After driving beater used cars for seven to eight years apiece, I finally got to the point in my life to save up and buy her when I was 36.
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Buying a new car for the first time was almost as stressful as planning my wedding, which I was doing at the same time. I knew I wanted a black five-speed with power windows, steering and locks. I'd never had any of those features on a car of my own, and even though I'd worked on a luxury car account, convincing people who could afford them to buy them, during my salad years, those now-standard features were the epitome of luxury within my budget.
I stopped by Southern States Volkswagen, the dealership by my home on the way back from work and asked for a Jetta brochure. They wouldn’t give me one, assuming I wasn’t a serious buyer. For the record, I know, having been in the business of producing car brochures, how much they cost per piece and that some people collect them as a hobby. Back in the agency days, my partner and I were sent out undercover with an A8 to hit up the Mercedes, BMW and Lexus dealerships for brochures to study the competition (our favorite thing to do to get in and out quickly was to pretend to be a couple and immediately get in a fight and make the salespeople uncomfortable). So I went home and downloaded one and pored over the specs.
Two nights later, Steve and I went back to Southern States VW to test drive a Jetta, and we were ready to buy on the spot. We were greeted after some milling about by a man with a brash, non-Southern accent and demeanor who was wearing a gold chain outside his dress shirt and tie. I told him I wanted a five speed (I love changing gears and feeling in complete control of a car… must be the speed racer in me) and he kept showing us automatics. Oh, and he talked almost exclusively to Steve, even though I was the one with a check to write. He finally said, “Okay, we have one five speed on the lot,” and let me take it out.
Because my last three cars were old and powerless, taking off in that powerful car and flying through the gears was nearly euphoric for me. Yes, I thought, this is my dream car, except for the color. “Sorry, that’s the only five-speed we have on the lot,” he said, basically telling me I could take it or leave it, unless I wanted to pay another $500 in transport fees from another dealership. So I left it.
On the following Saturday, Steve and I went to Leith Volkswagen in Cary. Those of you who know me will understand that I was seriously on a mission, as driving to the suburbs causes me to lose oxygen after all these years living convenient to everything I need inside the Beltline.
We walked into the showroom and were greeted by a lovely English receptionist. My guard was up, as was my defensive attitude, after our experience at the other dealership. “I just want to price a Jetta,” I told her. “One moment, please. Would you care for a beverage?” she responded. Not even two minutes later, a softspoken young man named Jack came out to greet us. I was immediately charmed by his demeanor, his mountain accent, his corduroy dress pants and his sweater with suede patches on the sleeves.
I told him I was looking to buy a Jetta GI, and though he was polite to Steve, he picked up on the fact that I was the customer. As we went out to test drive yet another five-speed, with Steve in the back seat, we struck up a conversation. Come to find out, he was also an English major and knew some of my friends who are local artists and musicians. We talked about books, shows, galleries, his girlfriend and our wedding plans.
Back in the showroom afterward, I told him what I’d been quoted at Southern States and what I was looking to spend. He said, “I’ll need to call my manager.” So I told him that during my research I’d read “Confessions of a Car Salesman” on Edmunds.com and that he could skip that façade. He laughed and gave me a quote for $1,500 under my first. And he found a black Jetta at a dealership in Jacksonville, N.C., apologizing that it might take two days to transport to Raleigh. “How much will that cost?” I asked. “Nothing.”
Overjoyed, I signed on the spot. Two days later, I drove my 10-year-old Mitsubishi, which I’d paid $4,500 dollars for eight years earlier after it had been wrecked and salvaged, to Cary for the last time. I only got $500 for the trade-in, as I’d pretty much driven it into the ground and never washed it or took care of its interior. But I was really sad handing over those keys. That car and I had been through so many reckless adventures. Letting that dented (all my fault), sad little car go for a bright, shiny grownup car represented letting young, reckless, dented Leigh Ann go and becoming a bright, shiny grownup.
Jack gave me the keys to Judy. I decided to christen the stereo with Bauhaus as I drove the half-hour home. Steve was out of town, so when I got home and parked on the little parking pad in front of our tiny crackerbox house, I found myself peeking out the door every 20 minutes at that pretty car that I’d paid for with my very own money; money I’d earned after 15 years toiling in jobs I didn’t much like so I could get to this point. I felt like I'd finally arrived.
So, person who hurt Judy, I am in a position to carry comprehensive insurance. Hopefully, the $4,700 worth of damage you caused will be covered after my $500 deductible. Paying that $500 will not cause us to go without groceries, but it puts us $500 away from things we’ve worked toward and dreamed about.
Do you think about it? I’m sure your car got hurt, too, and it will cost you a lot to fix it if you so choose, so that will be a reminder. But did you stop for one moment and think, “This is a hospital parking lot, the person to whom this car belongs probably isn’t having a great day, either, and I just made it worse.”
An anonymous note reading, "Sorry I hit your car," would have taken a lot of the insult out of the injury.
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Oh, Judy, don't let our sweet love
Wither and die like flowers in the fall,
Oh Judy, don't you know it's you
I love most of all,
Oh, please, come back I promise always to be true,
Oh Judy, there'll never be anyone else, else but you.
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