In December, I was sitting at a red light at 69th and Market streets, and the Police pursued a stolen minivan straight into my car. I try and make light of it, but the best I can do is to refer to it as the worst diet in the world. I’d have lost 220 pounds in an eighth of a second. A spot slower on the brake pedal, and I’d be a bad smell right now. And yes, it still sometimes bothers me.
My insurance company wouldn’t pay because I didn’t have collision. They told me the other guy wouldn’t pay because his car had been stolen, and he wasn’t driving. The Philly police haven’t told me squat (other than that they don’t have to pay, because they’re the police.) I guess they’re afraid that if I know who almost killed me over a 1999 Pontiac fucking Silhouette, or why he did it, I’d go to his house and shoot him.
I’m not going to lie. The thought has occurred to me. The ‘no-snitching’ policy is one the PPD probably needs to continue. I wouldn’t shoot him, probably, but I’d mail his pets to him bit by bit. Call me passive aggressive, I suppose. Anyway. Imagine my surprise when my insurance company called and gave me the VIN, plate number, and owner of the stolen minivan. It turns out that rather than me suing the thief, the owner’s insurance company will pay me, and then they will sue the thief. Here’s to hoping that damnable Gecko keeps his end of this bargain.
Oh. The name of the minivan’s owner? Jesus deJesus. I think it’s Spanish. I guess it just goes to show no one is safe.