My Neighbor the Dirtbag

Near the end of my daily commute today, I came across a terrible hit and run accident in front of what my husband and I call "Pee Pants Day Care."*

As I turned onto the street I could see that it was showered with the light green glittery stuff that means "no more back window," and off in someone's front yard was the rear bumper of an otherwise pulverized silver TransAm. A scared looking woman in pink heels was pulling out a cell phone and running over to check on the driver, who was signaling with her hands that she was OK. I pulled up and asked if I could help and Pink Heels told me the guy who did it had just driven off in a gold Chevy pick-up.

Check.

If there is anyone I'm willing to ride on fucking gangster-style it's a hit and run driver. A friend of mine was almost killed in June when a couple of boys in a stolen car somehow flicked her truck over the rails of an overpass in Houston, rolling it and wrapping it around a light pole like a wad of foil and breaking her neck in five places. The week before her wedding. And then they ran, convinced they'd killed her. So I'm riding with the retroactive wrath of a broken-necked bride (who is recovering beautifully, by the way) and giving the stink eye to all the gold pick-ups I come across but not finding one bashed up in the front.

I went back to the accident, which was by now crawling with cops and firemen, and apologized for being a useless revenge posse. The driver looked mostly unhurt, but was badly shaken, and I wished more than anything that I could have told her that I found the guy. But instead I headed home. There, in the alleyway leading to my carport, is a bashed up gold Chevy pick-up, parked at my neighbor's house with the driver's door hanging open and radiator fluid spouting out the front. The front tires are wedged pigeon-toed. The only thing missing is a terrified trail of urine leading into the house and upstairs to the underside of the bed.

I pulled out my phone to make possibly one of the most satisfying calls ever, but right as I do, a police cruiser rolls into the alleyway and up to the house, and for the first time ever, I am so happy to see a stocky, buzz-cut cop saunter out of his car holding a big fat notebook.

Neighbor, thou art a dirtbag.

*(Pee Pants Day Care got its name when I was in town on initial apartment-hunting recon, and I happened to pull over to read a map in front of this day care place. A little boy was trudging out with a towel around his waist, hanging his head in shame, and his day care teacher was leaning over trying to say something encouraging, but you just knew this was one of those formative moments that would burn itself into his subconscious. So I helped by christening his school Pee Pants Day Care.)