He was young. Perhaps, thirty five. His jeans were loose-fitting with yellow-faded socks extending into his polished, brown boots. He fidgeted from side to side. I couldn’t figure out why he had come to our door, so I went outside to talk with him.
He said that I had a ding in the side of my white Subaru. Sure enough, a ding right where the metal curved into the body. I would have a hard time just pulling it out with a plunger.
He said he could fix it for $100.
Now I hate scams, and this was clearly one. He made the dent in the side of the car so he could fix it. Sort of like a dentist who gives you novocaine to remove an excruciating pain that he had caused.
So, I declined. I would have been better off from a financial perspective to just have him fix it for $100, but somehow I couldn’t reward that kind of behavior.
So, now I have a dent in my car . . to go along with the dent in my psyche. I wonder if either will ever go away?