By: Leon Kortenkamp

“Officer, he drove his car right into mine. That’s all you need to know.”

“I was pushing down on the armrest with my left elbow and on the center console with my right hand to raise myself in the seat,” Mr. Jenson explains, shaking his head and pushing his unruly gray hair out of his eyes.

“Pushing down?” the policeman questions.

“Yes, sir. My elbow must have slipped off the armrest.  I guess, when it slipped off, I jerked the steering wheel, and that’s when my car bumped into the car in the next lane.”

“So, you admit that you ran into Ms. Rossini’s car?” the policeman says, jotting in his notebook.

“There, you have it, officer! He admits crashing into my car. Look at my car. What an idiot!”

“Please, Ms. Rossini. That’s not helpful,” the policeman says.

“I admit I bumped into her car, but it was not entirely my fault,” Mr. Jenson protests.

“How is that?” the policeman asks.

“Well, I was pushing up in my seat to pass some gas when it happened. I’m 81 years old, and my doctor says…”

“Can you believe this? His doctor says,” Ms. Rossini interrupts, shouting in the policeman’s face. “Look at my car. But it’s not his fault. He couldn’t help it. He had a big fart coming on.”. Then, glancing at her phone, she declares, “This is nuts. I have a meeting. Officer, can we wrap this up?”

“Well, it’s true.” Mr. Jenson protests. “I’m a very experienced driver. I have a clean record.”

“All right, both of you,” the policeman says. “We’re here to sort this out, however long it takes. Got it? “

No reply.

“Now, Mr. Jenson, you admit that you drove into Ms. Rossini’s car, so it still looks like you are at fault,” the policeman reviews.

“Well, I don’t think completely,” Mr. Jenson pleads. “I thought…like an act of God. You know? A couple of years back, some shingles blew off my roof in a storm, and the insurance man said it was an act of God. Well. this is a kind of like that, and…”

“Right. After all, wind is wind,” Ms. Rossini says sarcastically. “Now it’s an Act of God,” she laughs.

“Ms. Rossini,” The policeman interrupts.

“No. No, officer. Who’s going to pay for this damage?” she asks, waving her arm in a broad gesture, pointing with her bright red fingernail at the long scratch and dent in the rear fender of her car. “It’s a Saab, officer… A vintage Saab 900. Do you have any idea how much body work costs on a vintage Saab?” She is pacing back and forth in front of the policeman, her high heels clacking on the sidewalk, her suit coat flying open, flashing her white silk top. “Is God going to pay for it?” she continues. “I don’t think so. This idiot drove right into me. Act of God, my ass,” she says dragging out each word.

“Ms. Rossini, it can all work out. You’ll see.” The policeman assures her. “Just let me finish my report.”

“I have a meeting!” she rolls her eyes and shouts at the sky. “And this idiot is talking about wind and shingles and Acts of God.”

“Could be mitigating circumstances,” a tall man standing next to Mr. Jenson declares, brushing his gray hair aside and pushing his glasses up on the bridge of his nose.

“Who are you?” the policeman asks.

“I’m a witness. I saw the whole thing.”

“Witness?”

“Yes, sir. I saw the whole thing. I was in the car at the time.”

“What car?” the policeman asks.

“He was my passenger,” Mr. Jenson explains.

“Yes, I was riding in his car,” the man says. “I saw the whole thing. He was pushing up in his seat. He’s a very experienced driver, and I think there are mitigating circumstances.”

“Oh, you do?” Ms. Rossini interjects mockingly. Then turning toward the policeman, she adds, “This guy is as loony as his flatulent friend here.”

“What’s your name, sir?” the policeman asks.

“Barney. Barney Stafford, with two f’s.”

“At least two f’s, I’d say” Ms. Rossini laughs.

“Yes, sir. I saw the whole thing,” Mr. Stafford repeats stepping toward the policeman.

“Yes, mitigating circumstances,” Mr. Jenson agrees. “Act of God.”

“Officer, can’t we wrap this up? Haven’t you heard enough from these two shit birds?” Ms. Rossini pleads.

“Now, just a minute,” Mr. Jenson protests. “Officer, she just called me and my friend shit birds. I think that should have some bearing on the case. Don’t you?”

“I think that calls for the whole thing to be thrown out,” Mr. Stafford affirms.

The policeman takes a moment to review his notes, and Ms. Rossini launches into an animated argument with the two old men. To them the issue is metaphysical, as self-serving as that view might be. It’s about lofty interplay between the random forces of nature and divine design, both cosmic realities beyond mundane considerations of culpability. On the other hand, Ms. Rossini sees the damage to the fender of her car as desecration. Of course, there is culpability in her view. Culpability of the highest order.

“All right!” the policeman barks, bringing the argument to a close. “I’m filing my report the way it is. We’ll leave it to the insurance companies to work it out from here. Both cars look drivable, so you’d best be on your way, all of you.”

“Thank YOU!” Ms. Rossini proclaims, whipping her hair back and heading for her car.

“I don’t know,” Mr. Jenson protests. “I couldn’t help it, my elbow slipped…

“Exactly. That’s why we call these things accidents,” the policeman mutters as he gets into his car.

“Well, what do you think of all of that?” Mr. Stafford asks his friend.

“I don’t know anymore, Barney,” Mr. Jenson answers flatly, as he watches the policeman’s car pull away from the curb and vanish into traffic up the street.

***