walk, don't run

I had a day off from work and absolutely no plans. But things have a way of just... happening.

I woke up, had breakfast and was watching television. Midway through an episode of Leave It to Beaver that I had seen a zillion times, I decided to go out and visit a couple of nearby cemeteries that I have been meaning to check off of my list. (If you are new to the world of Josh Pincus, visiting cemeteries where famous people are buried has been a hobby of mine for many years.) Usually, I make a lot of preparation before a trip to a cemetery, but this time, I decided to wing it. I would just use the GPS coordinates posted on findagrave.com and hope to find the graves I was looking for.

I filled my trusty water bottle, grabbed a granola bar from the pantry and I was off. I said "goodbye" to Mrs. P as I closed the front door behind me. 

I drove through the entrance of Montefiore Cemetery, which is just a few blocks from my house. I navigated to the internet on my cellphone and clicked on the first grave on my list. I eased my car to the far end of the cemetery to Section 17. I parked, opened the door, got out and surveyed my surroundings.

And my phone rang.

I answered. It was Mrs. Pincus with an exasperated tone in her voice. I asked what was upsetting her. She told me that when she got in her car, the "flat tire" light was glowing brightly on the dashboard. I offered to take the car to a tire place the next morning (Saturday), as I already had plans for the day. She said that would okay, but she did have other errands to run later in the day. She finally agreed to my proposal and she'd make other errand-running arrangements. I continued to seek out the graves on my list. After a little frustration and little more searching, I found the first one. The second grave was closer to the cemetery entrance. After some wandering in and out of similar looking grave markers, I located the second — and final — grave of my morning quest. (A full report can be found here.)

I decided to forgo a trip to another cemetery. Instead, I went to take care of Mrs. Pincus's automotive issue. I drove over to my in-law's house where Mrs. P's office is located in a building on the property, but separate from the house. I parked my car on the street and walked up my in-law's long, steep driveway. I quickly ducked in to the office to tell my wife of the change in plans and then headed back out to her car. 

The mechanic that we've been taking our cars to for many years is located, coincidentally, just past the cemetery that I had explored earlier. I pulled my wife's car into his lot, which — to my surprise — was packed with cars. I could see through the glass of the pulled-down garage doors that each of his three bays had a car parked in it. I found a parking space, shut off the engine and went inside to the small office. When Dennis, our mechanic, saw me, he came out of the work area and took a place behind the tall office counter. I explained my dilemma about the flat tire light. I injected a little pathetic tone into my voice and boldly asked if he could take a look at it today.

"Sure," he said, then he added, "I'm kind of busy now, can you bring it back around noon?" I checked the clock on my cellphone and it read 10:40. I expressed my gratitude for squeezing me in and handed over the key fob for Mrs. P's car, explaining that I would just leave the car now and call my wife for a ride home. Then, I called Mrs. Pincus to report on the situation. She was very happy to hear and thanked me for taking care of things. She also said she'd be right over to pick me up, then she'd have to go back to work. I ended the call and waited.

And waited.

And waited.

Then, my phone rang. It was my wife. She explained that she was going to come over in my father-in-law's car, but it wouldn't start. I told her that my car was there and she countered by telling me that she didn't have the key fob to start my car. I exhaled loudly.

"I'll walk.," I said. "I'll just walk home.

My house is 2.7 miles from the mechanic's shop. I take this trip often, because the garage is directly across the street from the Domino's Pizza that we order from several times a month. However, when I go to pick up a pizza, I usually drive. No. I take that back. I always drive. Always.

Now, I am 64 years old and, recently, I have found myself huffing and puffing after climbing the stairs in my house. I have had some difficulty extracting myself from the sofa after an evening of intense television watching. I've heard some strange popping and cracking when I straighten my legs or back or other body parts that seem to feel better in a bent or curved or stretched state. Plus, it has been quite sometime since I have done any sort of walking that didn't end with a visit to a restaurant. In other words, I am in no shape to walk nearly three miles. But, I am stubborn. I don't share a lot of personality traits with my father (although some people will tell you differently), but I did inherit his sense of "I'd rather do it myself." So after, dismissing my wife's suggestions of taking a bus ore calling for an Uber, I set out on my 2.7 mile journey home.

I don't know if you are aware, but 2.7 miles is far! For a good portion of my little trek, there were no paved sidewalks. In a few places, I had to walk across the edges of a few house's front lawns, lest I put myself dangerously close to the surprising amount of traffic that transverses the outer reaches of Elkins Park. Along the way, I walked through the outer reaches of a Ukrainian cemetery, one that I have passed countless times on my way to get a pizza. Now, I was able to get a close-up look at the head stones, elaborately engraved with religious iconography and Cyrillic characters. Eventually, I found a wide and welcoming paved sidewalk that ran along the perimeter of an elementary school. Soon, though, the sidewalk inexplicably ended at the driveway of a corner house.

I crossed the street at a traffic light and decided to continue my route through a residential street. Elkins Park boasts an interesting variety of large and spacious mansions and small, compact houses. Around the late 19th century, the area was the location of the summer homes of some of Philadelphia's wealthiest citizens. Folks like Peter Widener and William Elkins retreated to huge, multiroom estates north of the bustling city Surrounding these impressive structures were smaller, more modest accommodations built specifically to house the servants of the rich. (Guess which one I live in?) I passed a few large homes, some still used as private residences, while others have been converted to apartment buildings or, in one case, a school. Nearby, on the same street, were several blocks of smaller homes that were dwarfed by the giant properties.

Boy, did my feet hurt!

Nearly an hour after I left my wife's car in the care of our mechanic, I arrived at my wife's office. I trudged up the long, steep driveway that runs the lengths of my in-law's property. I startled Mrs. P when I burst through the door and collapsed in the big swivel chair that sits by her desk.

My wife looked at me as I breathed heavily and slurped a healthy slug of rejuvenating water from her water bottle. "You're crazy.," she said.

"No," I corrected her, "'Crazy' is going to four different supermarkets in the same day." I reminded her of her activities from the previous day. She was fulfilling a long shopping list for her octogenarian parents who insist on getting specific items from specific supermarkets and will not settle for substitutions. Convenience be damned. The mini bagels must come from Giant's bakery while the salmon must be purchased from Aldi. No exceptions.

"That's 'crazy'", I clarified. "What I did was 'admirable.'" Okay, maybe it was a little crazy.

And I can guarantee, the next time I order a pizza, I am not walking over to pick it up.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

wrong 'em, boyo

I hate to beat a dead horse and tell another story about the tire troubles that seem to be plaguing the Pincus family vehicles, but.... I will anyway.

Mrs. Pincus and I were all set to meet some friends for dinner. We climbed into my wife's car and she started up the engine. Just before she slid the transmission into reverse, I saw the dreaded "tire pressure" indicator light glow angrily amid the illuminated gauges on the driver's side dashboard. I pointed the light out to Mrs. P and then I hopped out of the car to assess each tire individually. They looked okay to me. None of them seemed to yield to a frim pressing of my fingers. None of the tires looked the least bit flat. But, just to be safe, we took my car to the restaurant. On the way, I made an appointment for service at a place near my house that was conveniently open on a Sunday. The tire place's website was very intuitive and making an appoint was a snap. I even got two — two! — confirmations for my appointment. One emailed and one via text.

The next day, before I left for my appointment, I asked my wife about the last car inspection. I recalled having to purchase four tires just a few months ago. She confirmed the purchase. I didn't want some hard-sell corporate stooge eager to meet a company quota trying to sell me four new tires once they took a look at my wife's car. One tire.... maybe. But, I wasn't going to fall for any of their "upsell bullshit."

 

Guess where I went.

I drove over to the tire place a little before my noon appointment. When I entered the small waiting room/reception area, I was met with an unmanned counter. The room had that distinctive, yet unclear smell of rubber, grease and despair. A few customers were scattered about the room, fidgeting in their uncomfortable chairs and and fiddling with their phones to bide the time. After a minute or two, a young man burst through the door leading from the "off limits to customers" work area. He greeted me with a "hello." I started right in with the time of my appointment and the reason I was darkening his doorstep. He asked if I tried putting air in the tires. I told him I did not and  I did not know which tire was causing the indicator to light up. He asked me to pull my car up to the closest garage door and he would meet me out there. Dutifully, I followed his instructions.

It's magic!

The young man appeared with some sort of grime-covered electronic device. He asked me the make, model and year of my car, then he adjusted the buttons and dials on the device's face. He then dropped down on his knees and — I assumed — connected the device to the front tire of my wife's car. I couldn't exactly see what he was doing. He could have had an official Harry Potter magic wand for all I know about cars. Suddenly, he stood up and, with a frown on his face, told me that the tire pressure sensor on that tire was not working. He checked another tire and his magical tire-checking device reported the same result. He told me that the tire pressure was fine on all of the tires, but the sensors were not working. He went on to say that he could replace them, as he had them in stock. They cost $89 each. I asked if the tires were safe to drive on right now. He assured me they were. I told him I may be back. I drove out of the lot.

$89 each

I discussed the scenario with Mrs. Pincus on the phone as I drove. It was decided that I should go back and just get the sensors replaced. So I turned around and headed back to the tire place. I was greeted at the counter by another guy. I explained what had transpired earlier, as the first guy showed up. I told him that I returned to get the tire sensors replaced. He explained that, while he could do the work, it may take some time. He also admitted that they really didn't have the sensors in stock and he arranged for the second guy to run over to a nearby auto supply store to pick them up. In the meantime, I appropriated one of those uncomfortable chairs and settled in for a long, long wait.

Is this it?

After an hour in the waiting room, I turned to see my wife's car was still parked in the space where I had left it. During this time, the customers who were waiting when I came in had left and new ones had taken their places. After two hours, I spotted my wife's car through the big window that looked out on the work area. After two hours and thirty minutes, the first young man came out to the waiting room to ask me where the wheel lock key was. I shrugged my shoulders. He growled, "Oh, come on man!" I told him to check the back where the spare tire was or the glove compartment or the console between the two front seats. He shook his head and invited me into the "customers are forbidden" work area to find it for him. I maneuvered my way over to my car, avoiding an obstacle course of wrenches and metal tool boxes and hoses that litter the floor of the work area. I opened the driver's door as wide as it could, as it was partially blocked by the metal arm of the hydraulic lift on which the car was parked. I opened the lid of the console between the two seats and — among two lipsticks and a couple of quarters — was a big piece of metal that I vaguely remember being told was the wheel lock key. I raised the piece and displayed it for the first young man. "Is this it?," I asked, as I spun it on my index finger. The young man's mouth fell open. "I swear I looked there," he exclaimed and then he profusely apologized, multiple times, as though he had run over my dog. I returned to the waiting room. To wait.

Screwed.

After three and a half hours, the customers in the waiting room had turned over several times... except for me. A different young man appeared in the waiting room. He was holding a grime-covered plastic pouch that, at one time, may have been clear. It held a paper job order. "Mr. Pincus?," he announced and craned his neck to search for me. I identified myself. He pointed to the job order and asked, "Why do you think your car needs tire pressure sensors?" I cocked my head and looked at him. I noticed the first young man was behind the counter, wrapping up a transaction with another customer. I pointed to the first young man, about to reveal him as the source of the prescribed work. Instead, the first young man jumped to the side of this new mechanic, telling me that he diagnosed the problem. Well, the new mechanic proudly confirmed that all of the tire sensors are fully functional. They show a lower-than-normal pressure in the passenger side rear tire. He turned to the first young man and stated that he undoubtedly had the settings on the magical checking device wrong. He turned his attention back to me and said, "Ill check the tire and see what the problem is." as he head back out to the work area. The first young man slunk sheepishly behind him. Within a few minutes, the new mechanic popped his head into the waiting work through the work area access door and reported that he had discovered a metal screw in the tire. He said he would fix it as quickly as he could.

After four and a half hours, my wife's car was ready. I would be leaving with a freshly plugged tire and the same four tire pressure sensors I had come in with. The first young man finished the transaction. He did not look me in the eye and he did not apologize for his misdiagnosis, making me waste four and a half hours in the waiting room, almost making me spend $356 and lying about having the sensors I didn't need in stock. I don't remember if he even said "Thank you." I don't believe he did.

In hindsight, my first mistake was making that appointment.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com 

me and the boys

Way back in the early 2000s, I worked in the marketing department of Pep Boys, the national chain of after-market auto supplies. In the nearly four years that I worked in the company's main headquarters in Philadelphia, I set foot in an actual Pep Boys retail location at total of  two times. Once was to buy a set of Pep Boys bobble head characters. The second time was to fix a flat tire on a rental car while on vacation in Southern California. Aside from that, I had no reason to avail myself of Pep Boys' services. I had a local mechanic that I brought my car to for regular service. I had also heard my share of  "horror stories" regarding the level of care (or lack of) provided by Pep Boys mechanics. Customers described a wide range of experiences frm "stellar" and "excellent" to "awful," "unprofessional" and even "criminal." I was privy to a story summitted by a very unsatisfied customer who told of a routine stop to fix a flat tire. When the service was completed and her car war returned to her, she noticed that one of the car's windshield wipers was broken. She went on to question how this could have possibly happened, seeing as how the wipers are no where near the tires. I also heard a tale of how a customer's car was knocked off of the hydraulic lift in the service garage. I even saw full-color photographs to corroborate this customer's complaint. I will say that my personal experience in a Fullerton, California Pep Boys was short and sweet.

I owned my last car — a 2004 Toyota RAV4 — for twenty years. In that time, I recall getting a flat tire once. That dreaded little light popped up on my dashboard and, after consulting the owner's manual to determine the meaning of that little glowing pictogram, I drove my car over to my local mechanic and got a new tire. The end. That was the first and last time I had to deal with anything of that nature. In Spring 2023 I bought a brand new Subaru Crosstrek. In the 17 months that I have owned and driven my new car, the "flat tire" warning has lit up on my dashboard three times. Each time, after first cursing profusely, I drove my car over to the service department of the Subaru dealer from which I purchased my car. The first time, they were able to plug the damaged tire for a nominal fee. The second time required me to buy a new tire. Just two weeks after dropping two hours and two hundred bucks on a new tire, the light ticked on again while I was on my way to work. After unleashing a spontaneous barrage of carefully chosen expletives, I considered my options of how to quickly and efficiently remedy my situation. I wouldn't be able to get to the Subaru dealer until the weekend. It would be risky driving around with the threat of a full-blown flat tire looming over me. My tires seemed to be okay, but that damn light on my dashboard told me otherwise. I decided to take my car to one of the many service garages I pass on my way to work. I remembered there was a Pep Boys not too far away. I settled on making that a stop on my way home from work... providing my tire would hold out until the end of the day.

After work that day, I checked my car's tires. They all seemed fine — fine enough to get me to the Pep Boys just down Route 130 from my place of employment. I drove the short distance and pulled my car into Pep Boys parking lot. I parked, got out and headed to the front door. I half expected Rod Serling to step out from behind a stack of tires — a cigarette smoldering between his fingers — and announce that I had just entered The Twilight Zone.

This particular Pep Boys was different than any that I had seen before (all two of them). There was no retail section. No shelves with merchandise of any kind.. It was jus a big empty space, poorly concealed with a series of large posters advertising the various services that Pep Boys offers. Off to one side were large metal racks with dozens and dozens of tires. Along the back wall were piles of cardboard boxes. Just ahead was a reception counter, behind which stood two fellows in Pep Boys branded work shirts. They both looked liked characters that had just escaped from prison seen in countless television police dramas. As I approached the counter, neither man said a word, but they did not break the laser-like stare they had fixed on me. It was obvious that I was going to have to initiate this conversation. I cleared my throat and spoke up. I explained the light on my dashboard and the fact that my tires seemed to be okay. The one man finally asked for my key fob and handed me a clipboard to fill out a brief informational form. I asked if this would be taken care of while I waited. He didn't answer, but I believe I detected an ever-so-slight nod. I took that as a "yes."

So I waited. And waited. And waited.

After twenty-five minutes, I saw my car pulling into the otherwise empty service area. Through a large window, I saw a mechanic raise my car up on the hydraulic lift. I suddenly had flashbacks to those photos I saw twenty years earlier, but everything appeared to be okay. The other silent guy from the front desk joined the mechanic, but I couldn't tell exactly what they were doing. The first man, the one who asked for my key fob, stood silently at the desk and stared off into space. He did not appear to be anxious to entertain any of my potential questions or concerns, so I reconsidered asking about the timetable of my car's repair. I said nothing. I just continued to crane my neck to get a better view of the activity surrounding my car. I could see the lead mechanic wipe the sweat from his forehead and cheeks often by grabbing the front of his t-shirt and enveloping his face with it, exposing his large, hairy belly in the process. He also appeared to be moving in slow motion. His actions were jerky, as though illuminated by a strobe light. He walked to and from my car, sometimes wielding some sort of tool, sometimes not.

 

Finally, with just a few minutes remaining before the store's posted closing time, I was beckoned silently to the reception desk. The first man waved my key fob in my direction and motioned for me to present myself front and center. 

"We plugged it," he said, uttering the most consecutive words since I had arrived. 

"So, I don't need a new tire?," I asked. 

"No.," he replied, returning to his monosyllabic speech pattern.

He handed me a bill for $20 and change and I swiped my credit card in the terminal. The man handed me six pages that he had plucked from the tray of the printer behind the counter. He passed me my key fob.

"Where is my car?," I asked. He pointed towards the door and said nothing. I didn't press my line of questioning. I figured I could find my car on my own. Once out in the parking lot, I spotted my car the same space in which I had originally parked. I got in and started the engine. After driving a few feet, the flat tire light on my dashboard dimmed. It has not come back on since.

Although, I did find a large, greasy handprint on the hood of my car — the Pep Boys Seal of Quality.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

another nail in my heart

When did this become the car blog?

One morning last week, I got into my car and pressed the ignition button. This is something I have been doing for years except for the "button pressing" part. It used to be a key, but since I entered the 21st century this past spring when I purchased a 2024 Subaru, I press a button to start my car.

On this particular morning, I spotted a light on my dashboard — a light with which I am very familiar. A few years ago, my family and I were in Southern California. On my insistence, my wife and I went out one afternoon for some celebrity grave hunting... as one does when Disneyland just doesn't cut it. We headed out to Melrose Abbey Memorial Park and Mortuary, just a few miles south of Walt's first theme park. As we pulled in to the parking lot, Mrs. P pointed to a light on the dashboard of our rental car. We determined that it was the "flat tire indicator" and a call was placed to a local AAA service station while I strolled among the graves.

More recently, my wife's car sported the same light. A little closer to home, she took the car to our somewhat suspect mechanic who made the repair... and then some. (You can read about that HERE.)

So, when I saw the same light on the dash of my eight-month-old car at a time when I should have been well on my way to work — I was less than pleased. Among the many things that I hate, I would rank "inconvenience" somewhere near the top of my list. I turned the car off, stomped back into my house, stomped up the stairs, stomped over to my wife's side of the bed to wake her up from a sound sleep.

"My car has a flat!," I grumbled, as I lightly — lightly! — shook her awake. I told her I'd have to take her car to work and I asked if she could call AAA to change the tire. I added that I could not tell which tire was flat, because, after a quick check, all the tires appeared the same to me.

Later in the day, Mrs. P called me with a progress report. She said instead of taking the car to our usual mechanic and be subjected to a probable fleecing, she drove to a small garage just about the corner from our house. This place has been in its location for as long as we have lived in our house, but we never gave them the opportunity to service our cars. But, today was the day! Mrs. P told me the guy at the garage was pleasant and helpful. He assessed the tires and determined that the recent snap of cold weather was causing the tires to lose pressure. He pumped the required amount of air into each of the tires and — sure enough! — the offending light on the dashboard went out. He waved off my wife's attempt to give him a few bucks for his trouble. Instead, Mrs. P returned to his shop with a Dunkin "Box o' Joe" and a dozen donuts. This gesture set her back more that just a "couple of bucks," but it appeared that the problem was solved. No more inconvenience and that was good enough for me. 

This was Friday, so I had the opportunity to take my car to the Subaru dealer for a "just to make sure" check. After driving my car around the block, the tire pressure light didn't come on. I decided to forgo a trip to the dealership.

On Monday, I got in my car to go to work and — goddamn! — if that light didn't come on again. I got out and looked carefully at all of my tires. I even pressed on them. Hard! They felt firm and steady. None looked the least bit flat. So, against my better judgement, I drove it to work. I defiantly drove the 15 miles, spanning a bridge into another state, to my job (as well as the 15 miles home). I did that all week. A couple of those days, it rained. The thought of getting struck somewhere between my house and Pennsauken, New Jersey crossed my mind more that a few times. The thought of how dumb and stubborn I was being also crossed my mind. But, nevertheless, I drove my car — with its low tire pressure light mocking me from the dashboard — for five consecutive days. On Day Six — Saturday — I woke up bright and early and took my car to the Subaru dealership... something I should have done five days earlier.

A friendly service technician asked me what was the nature of my visit. I explained all about the low tire pressure light and the encounter with our neighborhood mechanic. I reluctantly told her that I drove the car for five days before bringing it in. She had me initial a form and then directed me to the waiting area in the service department. I had no sooner poured myself a cup of complimentary coffee when the service technician approached me to say that a nail was discovered in the driver's side rear tire. I authorized a repair and — one hour and twenty-seven dollars later — my car was mine... sans "low tire pressure" alert,

No more inconvenience... and no more visits to neighborhood mechanics.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

under my wheels

My next-door neighbor rear-ended my car while it was parked (parked!) in front of my house. He rang my doorbell and sheepishly admitted to the accident (details of which were revealed by his mother later*) in an awkward exchange on my front porch. I contacted a friend who owns an auto body shop and my car was soon off for repair, with the entire cost rightly footed by my neighbor.

After a week or so, my car was returned to me as good as new (or as close to new as a ten-year old car can get). I was not really inconvenienced by its absence, as I take the train to work daily and I rarely drive on weekends. Why do I have a car then? Well, I'm not going to walk to the dry cleaners and I regularly go to concerts that are not at venues located on convenient train routes. 

When my car was returned, it was pointed out that both rear tires were in pretty poor shape. "How on earth did they even pass inspection?," was the actual assessment. I promptly made an appointment with my mechanic and I dropped my car at his shop the night before, leaving my keys and instructions in a sealed envelope that I shoved under one of the locked garage doors. The next morning, he called to say that the front tires were just as bad and he recommended replacing them as well. So, eight hundred bucks later, I was back in business. I got my car back just in time. That evening, I had plans to go to one of those "off the train route" concerts, this one remotely located in South Philadelphia.

Warning! Warning! Danger! Danger!

I hopped into my newly-tired vehicle and set out for the show. Just as I took the on-ramp to Philadelphia's notorious Schuylkill Expressway, I noticed the ominous glow of the tire sensor light on my dashboard. "Yikes!," I thought, "What didn't the mechanic do?" Here I was, doing 60 miles-per-hour on what could possibly be poorly-attached tires. Or maybe I had a flat. I lowered the radio and listened carefully, trying to slow down as cars whizzed by me on either side. The angry tire light remained at a steady amber gleam. Mocking me. Warning me of impending trouble. I pictured a tire loosening from its mount and bouncing across the four lanes as I skidded to my death on a bare, spark-spewing wheel hub. With panic being to set in, I frantically anticipated the next exit. I was approaching Girard Avenue and I passed. I was in enough trouble already without having to worry about the sketchy neighborhood surrounding the Philadelphia Zoo. ("Wow! A faulty tire AND he got shot seven times and robbed. Poor guy.") I opted for the 30th Street exit instead, where I would feel safer in the vicinity of a heavily-trafficked train station and several well-lit high rises. I pulled over into a taxicab stop and jumped out of my car. I authoritatively inspected each tire with a few kicks from my boot. I encircled my car a few more times, like most mechanically-deficient guys, half-expecting and secretly hoping a flashing neon light and a cartoon arrow to pop up and scream "Here's your problem, idiot!" But, no such luck. I called Mrs. Pincus and told her I was blowing off the concert and heading back home. She suggested I take a different route, avoiding the high-speed requirements of the Expressway. I obliged. I got back in my car and carefully maneuvered my way into traffic and through the city to Broad Street, a main thoroughfare, though punctuated by traffic lights at nearly every corner. I slowly drove the thirteen miles to my house.

When I finally arrived home after the grueling, white-knuckle journey, envisioning my demise at every trolley track and pothole, I dropped my car off at the now-closed mechanic. I scribbled a note describing my ordeal and, leaving my key, shoved another envelope under the locked garage door.

I called the mechanic bright and early the next morning. He said he was working on mu car as we spoke. It was not a problem. He explained that the tire sensors work differently in older cars and he only needed to make a small adjustment or two. He assured me that at no time was I ever in danger.

I missed the concert, but better safe than splattered across the asphalt... or however that saying goes.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

Nice work there, Alex

* She told my wife that her son, Alex, was very upset by my reaction to the accident. I was puzzled by this, because I did not yell or even raise my voice. I slowly walked to the curb where my car was parked and evaluated the damage aided only by the illumination of a nearby streetlight. When I saw the giant crack in the spare tire cover, I muttered, "Well get it taken care of." and I walked back into my house to finish my interrupted dinner. I later found out that, near tears, Alex asked his mother, "Why doesn't Mr. Pincus like me anymore? He liked me when I was a kid?" Oh, I don't know, Alex, maybe it has something to do with you just hit my fucking car!