The pounding abruptly woke me from my morning slumber. I sat up in bed, groggy sleepiness clouding my mind. What was going on? It took a few seconds to focus. I jumped out of bed – still in my pj’s – and dashed around to the front door.
A policeman stood on my front porch, banging on the door. He probably tried the doorbell, but it hasn’t worked in years.
I opened the door a crack and he asked, “Do you own the gray Honda around the corner?”
“Well, sorry to tell you but it was in an accident. A school bus hit it. Come on out, we need to fill out the paperwork. Who’s the owner of the vehicle?” he inquired, staring at me and hub, who followed me to the door and now stood behind me.
“It’s in my name,” I responded.
“I’ll need the owner’s driver’s license, registration, and insurance information.”
I was speechless.
I raced back to the bedroom. The clock read 7:15. I threw on some clothes, rummaged around my pocketbook, found my license, grabbed it and left the house.
A school bus, lights blinking, sat on the side of the road. A policeman approached me, pointed to my car and said, “Check out the right front, that’s where it was hit.” I walked around my SUV, examining the damage. It was dented, smashed, ugly-looking, the passenger door opened only a fraction, but drivable.
“Open the back door and I’ll throw these on the seat,” the policeman said, holding the bumper and grill in his hand.
Our street is blocked off for a week, crammed with construction equipment, cones, trucks, and workers. Notified a couple of days before work began, I parked on a nearby street.
The school bus went about its rounds, the regular route altered because of road closures. As the driver turned onto a narrow side street, not part of the bus’s usual itinerary, the back end of the BFB – big f*** bus – sideswiped my car.
A couple of policemen, ensconced in their cruiser positioned across the road, blocking traffic from the work site, witnessed the episode.
FYI – No one was hurt. There were kids on the bus, but everyone was safe.
The insurance company was contacted and recommended a repair shop. Unfortunately, the garage could not look at my car until sometime in November, with no guarantee it could be scheduled for repair before the first of the year.
Another call to the insurance company, another repair shop contacted. The second place proved more responsive. Hub and I drove over to the shop, a half-hour away. The mechanic strode around the car, looked it over, tugged and pulled, and said they could probably – maybe – hopefully – fix the damage within the next two or three weeks. The hesitancy: availability of parts, in short supply.
Additional vehicle parts are currently crammed on cargo ships, anchored somewhere in the Pacific waiting to unload…while my car resides at the repair shop, pending parts.
I now drive a rental, parked on a side street because our road continues to be filled with construction equipment and workers busy breaking up pavement and installing new sewer lines.
Someday my car will be returned, repaired and almost good as new. Someday our street will have new sewer lines. Someday the construction noise will end, replaced by neighborhood peace and quiet.