Two Sundays ago I woke leisurely, brushed my chompers and headed to breakfast in our Project Toyota Celica. The car was filthy, which isn't exactly relevant to the story, but I can't help but think the guy I'm about to tell you about would've been more respectful if the car were clean.
Anyway, I drive myself and the wife to this little breakfast hole about a mile down the road. Although the place doesn't take credit cards, which usually keeps me away, we're regulars. It's the only joint in L.A. with decent bagels. We grab a table by the window, I order up the breakfast burrito and a toasted bagel and start thumbing through the L.A. Times.
Halfway through the burrito, I look out the window to check on the car.
It's a habit, like putting my left sock on first. What I see sends a shockwave of anger through my soul. There's some guy leaning on my car. He's actually got his ass planted on the Celica's quarter panel.
Now I can't eat. My fists are clenched. My jaw locked. I look out the window again. He's still on the car. On my car.
My wife thinks I'm overreacting. "Just relax," she says. "It isn't even your car."
"That's not the point," I say. "The point is, it isn't his car."
Then he does the unbelievable. He lifts his right foot and plants his Nike, his filthy stinking Nike, on the paint. What's the guy going to do next, spit on my mother? I freak. No jury would convict me under the circumstances.
"Scott don't," calls my wife as I rush the door.
"Don't what?" I say. "Teach this piece of shit some manners?"
I go outside. I walk up to this, this, this animal that has his shoe on my car and I ask him, "Is this your car?"
He's slightly puzzled. "No," he says.
"Well, it's mine," I say through clenched teeth. "Do you mind getting your fucking foot off it?"
The way I figure it, the guy has two choices. He can fight me, or apologize. He does neither. Instead he denies it. He actually denies it. The gall. Now he's calling me a liar. I begin to vibrate like a tuning fork.
Standing there shaking, staring down this monkey, I wonder how someone can be so disrespectful. So stupid. Without a word, he motions to his friends and walks away. The look on his face is enough to tell me he still doesn't get it. He's wondering what asylum I've escaped from instead of realizing he's the one with the problem.
I deflate, return to my breakfast and my now unhappy wife. "Feel better?" she asks in the tone.
Yup.