The Dirt Field

“Someone hit my car today,” began Paul offhandedly during dinner last night.

I was surprised that he was just mentioning this now. “Really? Where? Did it mess up your car?”

Paul casually explained that it happened on his way to his friend Joey’s apartment, and that the other driver scratched his rear bumper. He seemed relatively calm about the whole thing, and I figured that he had just let it go. I was mistaken.

“I got their license plate number,” he said smugly. He then went on to explain that he had pursued the person.

I was shocked. “You neglected to mention that you were in a HIGH SPEED CHASE today? How could you just bring this up NOW?”

He seemed nonplussed. “I wouldn’t call it high speed. We were in traffic, and I just followed him for about three or four miles, weaving in and out of other cars. It was obvious he knew I was chasing him.”

I have never had such a strangely casual conversation. The same man who became irate when he noticed a small dent in the underside of his bumper was now calmly explaining that he had been hit while sitting in traffic and then aggressively pursued the offending vehicle.

Paul then pulled out his cell phone in the middle of dinner, called the police, and filed a report. Thirty minutes later, an officer came to our apartment to examine the car, after which Paul plopped down on the couch and asked, “So do you want to watch the movie now?”

Sometimes I think I’m married to a complete stranger.