“You fool! You’ve dented — NO!! – You’ve ruined my car, my beautiful car! It had perfect paint, no dents, and an almost new smell, and you’ve ruined it all because you are in a hurry to get . . . Where? Where the hell were you going at 50 miles an hour in a parking lot? I want your license. No. I want the police! I want you thrown in jail and the key thrown away, you inconsiderate, incompetent, self-centered, still wet-behind-the-ears whippersnapper who shouldn’t even be driving. You’ve been drinking; haven’t you! That’s it! You are drunk, drunk beyond the limit I’ll bet you. Yes! This situation will best be served by the police hauling you off to jail — but the hospital first for a blood sample before you can burn off any of the alcohol in your system! I want you fried publicly, in the press, in the news, and in the street gossip for running into an old lady! You are finished. You hear me? Finished.”
Just then the driving instructor got out of the passenger side of the car the old lady was yelling at to let her know his student hadn’t hit her. Backing out of the parking space she’d backed into a concrete standard designed to stop cars from hitting the side of the building.
Agatha, you see, was an actress back in the day, or so she thought. But in reality she was just a very old lady with severely diminished driving skills, trying to distract everyone from the fact that she had damaged her car. You could see the panic on her face, her gray wispy hair falling from its knot atop her head as she presented her case in a very hysterical wobbly voice to anyone within hearing range. Her faded flower dress had seen better days, as had everything else about her.
Her fear of losing her license was palpable. She was terrified of being idled by a ticket for yet another accident. But this time was probably the last ticket she’d get. An officer had arrived and was now walking around her car. Her diatribe ceased as she saw him, knowing what was to come. Her future had arrived.
Just then the driving instructor got out of the passenger side of the car the old lady was yelling at to let her know his student hadn’t hit her. Backing out of the parking space she’d backed into a concrete standard designed to stop cars from hitting the side of the building.
Agatha, you see, was an actress back in the day, or so she thought. But in reality she was just a very old lady with severely diminished driving skills, trying to distract everyone from the fact that she had damaged her car. You could see the panic on her face, her gray wispy hair falling from its knot atop her head as she presented her case in a very hysterical wobbly voice to anyone within hearing range. Her faded flower dress had seen better days, as had everything else about her.
Her fear of losing her license was palpable. She was terrified of being idled by a ticket for yet another accident. But this time was probably the last ticket she’d get. An officer had arrived and was now walking around her car. Her diatribe ceased as she saw him, knowing what was to come. Her future had arrived.
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