Windshield Witch

I should start by saying that on newfangled cars, when they put in a new windshield, they have to recalibrate the safety system, and they ask you before your appointment to make sure you don’t have anything heavy in your trunk. I hate the lane assist “safety” feature, but they have to set it and if you want to turn it back off, that’s up to you. Liability and whatnot, I guess.

Anyway, the windshield place I went to was far away from my house, so I didn’t ask anyone to pick me up, I just waited there. There was a big window in the waiting room, so you could kind of see the work going on in the garage. After two hours, I noticed that they were just starting to remove my old cracked windshield. Ugh. Oh well, staring into space is one of my talents. I also had my phone.

I was surprised how the windshield cracked a hundred directions when the guy ripped it off. He had everything but one corner ripped away when it seemed to get stuck. He yanked on it for a while and then set it back in place. A few minutes later, another guy came and they ripped it off together. Shortly after that, I noticed the first guy glancing at me every few seconds. At first I thought it was a “Why is that weird woman watching us work?” look. Well, he was more interesting than the ESPN interviews on the TV up in the corner, so I just kept watching him. Later I realized he had probably already checked to see if there was anything heavy in the trunk.

Meanwhile, the office dude said I could give him my payment info if I wanted to.

Like a badass bitch, I said, “I’ll give that to you when the work is done.”

He was totally fine with that.

Not long later, the car was done, and the office guy said, “There WAS some scratching when the windshield came off, so just take it to a body shop and send us the bill. It will probably be about sixteen hundred.”

I know accidents happen, but I didn’t relish the thought of another day wasted at a car appointment. If my car weren’t leased, I would have just driven around with it scratched. But I don’t want to get charged when I return the car after three years.

I walked out of the office and into the garage, where a guy said, “Can you give us a minute?” No one’s supposed to come in the garage, of course, and they wanted to pull the car outside.

I said, “No.” I took pictures of the scratches with the wall of the shop visible in the background.

To the office guy, I said, “Could you please email me what you said about billing you?”

He said the information would be on the invoice.

I said, “Could you still email me what you said about billing you?”

He printed out the invoice. “Huh, I don’t know why it’s not on there.”

I raised my eyebrows. He handwrote the information at the bottom.

I said, “Could you also email one?”

He was not happy. “You have my signature right there.”

Meanwhile the windshield guy had come in to apologize. I said to the office guy, “An email I can just forward to someone. Could you please email it? Sorry, but I’ve been screwed TOO many times.”

Giving in, he looked at the computer. “Your email address is… Witchy warrior?”

Okay, it’s not exactly that because I don’t want to blog my email address, but it’s very similar.

I told the apologetic windshield guy that I wasn’t mad at him and that I wouldn’t even care about the scratch if the car weren’t leased. He apologized again anyway.

The office guy emailed me and I waited for it to come through to my inbox. Then I tried to hand him my card. He said, “Oh no, we’re waiving the fee since we scratched it.”

Witches’ money is no good there.

After I left, I was thinking how surprised I was that they told me about the scratch instead of hoping I didn’t notice it until it was too late to blame them. Then I realized that the look on the windshield guy’s face hadn’t been, “Why is that weirdo watching me work?” It had been, “Oh shit I think the woman with the giant neon pink ‘EACH YEAR 30,000 PREGNANCIES A YEAR RESULT FROM RAPE IN AMERICA’ Women’s March sign in her trunk saw me scratch her car.”

And then he came in and heard my email address.

Not how I would choose to spend a day again, but at least it ended with a cackle–er–laugh.

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