Evidence in a Crime or A Small Moment Entitled the Beast and the Beauty Salon

I'm sitting at a red light at 13th and R yesterday at around twenty until 4:00, and I'm feeling good about a solid day of work over with, the weather, when I hear persistent horn honking behind me. I crane my neck to investigate and spot a wild eyed young woman behind the wheel of a silver Ford, waving like a maniac, motioning for me to get out of her way. I give her a look of filth and turn back to face the road ahead. The light turns green. I forget all about her. I ride up the hill, past Benjamin N. Cardozo High School, and through a green light at Clifton Street. Just after the light, the Ford peels around me, passes me in the oncoming traffic's lane, cuts me off to save herself from a head-on collision, and clips my front left turn signal, horn, and fender. I get the wobbles like I'm skateboarding down suicide hill for a half block, or what feels like an eternity, with my life flashing before me, and regain control just in time to pull up to the crone's driver's side window in front of the stop sign at 13th and Euclid. That's when she rolls up the window and does the whole kindergartner, I-can't-hear-what-you're-saying thing. She pulls ahead, and I smack her back driver's side window with my open hand as hard as I can. I fall back in behind her, and when I get to Fairmont Street, the next, and my street, several things occur to me. It's Wednesday, which means J. is picking S. up from school, the weather is absolutely beautiful, it's 3:45, and I'm done with work for the day, nothing to do until my 6:00 appointment with the Hell's Beerguts for pre-bocce Guinness and cheese fries at the Pour House. I proceed straight on 13th at Fairmont Street and away from my humble abode. She's got me in her rear view for the next five blocks until a back-up at Park Road stops traffic again. Her window's back down and we get the red light at Park. A lovely middle-aged woman behind us pulls up to report that she saw everything, and had copied down the Ford's license plate number(Maryland 5DN-P81) to report to the police. As I'm trying to thank SUV lady, Medusa sticks her head out the window of the Ford, spewing belligerence to the effect of -we've got it all wrong, I hit her with my motorcycle- a motorized bicycle, mind you, that many might consider a child's toy. Traffic clears and we head north again on 13th Street and into Petworth. At Jefferson Street, the Ford turns left. At Jefferson Street, I turn left. The Ford pulls to the end of Jefferson and parks in front of a beauty salon, three spots back from 14th Street. When Medusa emerges from the car, I'm parked behind her. She tells me I "deserved to be hit," because I "didn't know whether (I) wanted to be a car or a bicycle," and high-tails it into the beauty shop, after all, she's late for her appointment. First, I call to find out that my girls are shopping and won't be home for about an hour. Next, I call the Metropolitan Police to report the ordeal. Three officers pull up in a squad car minutes later. I give them my story, tell them I'm fine, and confess that, had the bitch just said "Oh my God; I'm so sorry; I'll be more careful," I'd never have even involved them. The cops are cool...and they have a hell of a plan. They'll record the incident as a "hit and run," call for a tow truck, and confiscate the Ford as "evidence in a crime." I am so down. I give the cops my information and we're wrapping things up as the tow-truck arrives. Guess who comes running out the beauty shop with a towel wrapped around head? You guessed it, and she's got an elaborate story about how I rammed the side of her Ford sedan with my 49cc Tomos Streetmate. Awesome. The cops are loving every minute of it and man am I with them. The conflicting stories declassify the incident from a hit and run to a collision and it is suggested that Medusa and I exchange insurance information. I gaze into the Medusa's eyes, eyes now filled with an emotional cocktail of reverence, remorse, and regret, and I say "aw shit...I can bend that fender back into place myself...she can keep her insurance information...I just hope she's a little more careful next time she's late for her beauty parlor appointment." The cops burst out laughing, I remount the Streetmate, cruise off, out of the suburban cesspit of Petworth, back into the cozy urban confines that are the Heights of Columbia, arrive home, and crack open an ice-cold Iron City.