The Brains Behind Door Dings

I have a question. It's a question that I ask quite frequently, to friends, to family and to myself. It is a conundrum which causes bewilderment to those who ask it because it provokes thoughts of revenge and sympathy at the same time. It is a question that keeps me awake at night and is one to which I'ver never received a satisfactory answer.

What is wrong with people?

Over the past 3 years Suzy's vehicle has been the target for many a car-door, fired at close range, always in parking lots. This open-door action causes scratches and dings in our car and we can't seem to stop it from happening.

I've grown to accept that the world is inhabited by an almost uncountable number of inconsiderate and incompetent people who drive. I've learned to deal with this by parking at the farthest end of a parking lot, away from all those evil people whose only purpose in life seems to be smashing our car.

But what happens when they follow you? What happens when you can't get away from them? What do you do?

On the weekend we took our battered yellow car to the grocery store and, as always, parked at the back of the parking lot away from the other shoppers.

Due to my foot problem, I returned to the car while Suz waited in line with our cart-full of edibles.

As I approached our car, a woman pulled up beside my driver's door. This was enough to anger me, as the rest of the parking lot was relatively empty and she could have parked anywhere else. However, her peanut-sized brain decided that the best place to park was 4 and half inches from my door.

She watched me intently as I carefully slid my skinny frame through the opening and settled into my seat.

She finished her cigarette. With the nicotine coursing through her useless body, she proceeded to kick her door open. Okay, I can't be sure she actually used her foot to blast her door open, but it hit our car with such force that I actually felt it rocking back and forth from the impact.

From inside our car I stared at her face while she stood in front of me and exclaimed, "shit."

"What do I do?" I thought to myself. Do I get angry and give her hell for being such a crusty, inconsiderate moron? Or do I give her a break, because I know there are already 3 other door-dings in that door?

I got out and inspected the door. Not only had her door chipped the paint on the trim panel, but it had gouged out a small chunk of plastic as well.

"Did it leave a mark?" she asked. I felt like punching her in the nose, watching the blood trickle down and then asking her that exact same stupid question.

"Yes it did." I answered.

"Sorry." she mumbled.

"Just another to add to the collection." I said. And I watched her walk away, into the grocery store to buy her food. Food that clearly does not nourish her sad excuse for a brain.