Jelly Donut Grifters

I was returning to my car in the parking lot of a local fruit and vegetable market, thinking about nothing more insidious than how great the haricots verts with herb butter was going to taste at dinner that night. As I reached my car, I noticed a big, black Mercedes parked next to mine with a young man sitting in the front passenger seat. He seemed to be studying me intently. I wasn't sure whether I should be flattered or horrified because I knew I didn't look my best–I never do when shopping. (Actually, I do make an effort to look good at Bergdorf.)

I was annoyed that the Mercedes was parked so close to my car; it was a big lot and there were plenty of spaces. In my usual overly cautious, snail-like manner, I started to back straight out–at about 2 miles per hour–looking to the left, right and turning around to look behind me, as I had been taught. Just as I was safely past the Mercedes, the young man glared at me, leaped out of his car and ordered me to stop. He started screaming that I had scratched the whole side of "his friend's" car. He said he was going to call both his friend and the police and demanded that I wait.

I replied that I would wait for the police but that I was certain my car had made no contact with his. Even though I have on occasion been accused of being oblivious to my surroundings (an accusation that is not entirely without merit), surely I would have felt the impact if I actually had scratched the length of the Mercedes. Since I had felt nothing, I asked him to show me the damage. In response, he gestured to the back rear panel of the car, which appeared to be white. Was the white color a tightly knit mass of tiny scratches? Could I possibly have added this lovely mosaic to his car at two mph without feeling any contact? While pondering these questions, I unconsciously ran my finger over the long white patch on the rear panel and noticed that it left a path of gleaming, black, unblemished Mercedes beneath.

Groping for an explanation of this strange phenomenon, then smiling my most enigmatic Mona Lisa smile, I asked my accuser if he and his friend had spent the morning eating powdered jelly donuts. Although I didn't taste it, the white substance on his car looked and felt exactly like jelly donut sugar. I demonstrated to the young man that whatever the powder was, it came off with the greatest of ease. That only drove him into greater paroxysms of rage. He yelled, "It's not coming off. Get your hands off my car!" I retrieved a soft cloth from my car and started wiping off the "damage." At this, he became totally hysterical and screamed "Get your filthy hands off my car." A bit slow on the uptake (it was still pretty early in the day), it finally dawned on me that I was dealing with a full-fledged maniac. I retreated to my car, locked myself in and waited for the police.

A minute later, his "friend," a bottle blond, would-be bombshell well past her sell-by date, arrived on the scene–a little too quickly and suspiciously unburdened by any shopping bags. She seemed calmer and more reasonable than her friend and gestured to me to roll down my window so we could talk. I deemed it safe to do this since the enraged man was now sulking in their car. I explained that her boyfriend had been aggressive, hostile and rude to me when I was trying to help them by cleaning the jelly donut powder off their car.

Here's where all the time I had logged watching all three versions of CSI came in handy. She said that the young man was not her boyfriend. I replied, "Sorry, friend then." She said "He's not my friend either, he's my son." Then I asked her what the white substance on her car was (even though my personal crime scene investigation had left me pretty sure that it was confectioner's sugar). She said it was scratches from where I had collided with their car. "But your car is black, so why would the scratches be white?" I asked. She looked at me as though I were a simpleton and said "the car is white underneath the black paint and that's what cars look like when they get hit." Although I've never worked in a body and fender shop, I knew not to continue this excursion into Bizarro-car-land. I didn't bother to point out that the white powder was easily removed, revealing the intact, undamaged black surface underneath it.

That's when she suggested that I would probably want to resolve the matter with a cash payment "right here in Brainerd," as it were. She informed me that for $500 they "would forget the whole thing." At this point I realized that she and her son, or whoever he might be, were merely entry-level grifters, since her "son" had already spoiled the scam by calling the police. I knew that once the police were involved I would have to notify my insurance company and let it handle the claim. I got back in my car, once again locked the doors, and waited for the police.

When the police finally arrived a few minutes later (apparently they did not regard a report of a scratching in a parking lot as a high priority) the officer asked me if I was hurt. Apparently the male passenger had told the officer that he had felt two violent impacts and that his neck was starting to stiffen. I, of course, replied that I was fine and that our cars had never made contact. The policeman ascertained that the Mercedes was registered to a construction company (maybe the white substance was construction dust rather than jelly donut powder) and that there were no signs of damage to either car. When I got home I notified my insurer.

I didn't ask and did not care what happened to the pair of inept scammers. They were not very good grifters but I hope at the very least that they enjoyed the jelly donuts.