I must have been about 15 years old when I “stole” my parent’s car one time. They were both at work and I was at home with my sister... I forget, but I guess it was during a school holiday. Ilze would have been around 18 years old at the time and had no interest in her younger brother’s antics. I simply got the car keys, opened the gates, got in the car and confidently reversed into the street. I had some trouble manoeuvring the car, though. It was a long driveway and you had to know how to reverse in a straight line.
Sadly, I didn’t’ clear the test. I succeeded in wedging our beige Jumbo Golf’s back left door against the gate and only managed to get past the gate on my second attempt. Upon inspection I discovered a two inch gash where the gleaming door finish had been neatly flaked off. Besides, there was a distinct dent.
Nevertheless, my pioneering spirit compelled me to complete my quest. I drove the single kilometre to the local grocer, purchased something insignificant (probably a King Rat Candy, the yellow custard-flavoured variant which was a favourite of mine.), got back in the car and drove home munching.
My lazy Fairy Godmother was watching over me that day because, beyond my most impossible dreams my father didn’t notice the chink. Upon discovery some months later he thought the damage had been caused by “an A-hole” parked next to us who had opened their car door a tad too hard.
That’s a photo taken on my last day of school, more than three years after the incident. That is the very car and the very driveway, but by that time I possessed a driver’s license and could operate the car legally and competently. Yes, and that thin, young person so full of hope and life and hair is me.
Many, many years later The One came to pick me up at work one day – I guesstimate three years ago. As we walked to the car, he nervously confessed that he’d had a little run-in earlier with the gate at our house, which was in Lydiana at that time. Now I agree that that bloody driveway was almost impossible to navigate – bloody steep uphill with a zigzag curve to get to the road.
When I saw the dent in the car’s backside, smeared with paint, I knew that that specific karmic debt had been repaid. I gave The One some flack about it but it was not his fault. Ag, it’s only unsightly and it has no impact upon the car’s performance, so we simply cleaned off the green paint and we coexist with the dent in reasonable peace.