His last name is ancient, as old as I am alive.  His first name is “healed by Ya.”  I spent an hour in a Sear’s parking lot with this child of God.

A few moments before the parking lot, my left turn signal existed.  It blinked.  I would be turning soon, but I wasn’t yet.  Fifteen drivers had not yet looked up from their phones to the green arrow.  Patience is a virtue, and Instagram can’t wait.

Crunch!  “Was that my car?” I think as a I look in the mirror.  Panicked and guilty eyes greet mine.  “Steer it and clear it,” I tell myself, “but do they even have that rule in Alaska?”  I have my CDL in the 49th state, but I can’t remember the accident protocol at all.  “I hope this guy has insurance,” I say out loud, hoping that the sound waves will influence reality.

I sheepishly parked by the median. I wave at the BMW behind me.  Over the scuffed bumper, he waves back.  Through the open window, a young voice pleads, “I’m fine, let’s pull into Walgreens.”  I nod in consent, and I immediately disobey.  The Sear’s parking lot is a safer choice.  I’m a professional driver. He’s obviously not safe. He can follow me.

“Should I call an officer?” I joked.

“No need, you clearly put it into reverse and backed into me,” my beanie-clad delay worser-joked.

I called my insurance agent right away.  “I am new to this state.  What do I need to do?”

The call with his insurance agent was more helpful.  Timothy was a young man who traveled with Paul. At the end of Paul’s life, he wrote letters to communicate with Tim over long distances.  My Timothy was working the late shift in a call center in Florida, and he was certifying that I wasn’t at fault.  Thanks Tim.  You’ve made the gecko proud.

And just like that, I caused marital discord.  The BMW wasn’t his.  Why was he driving his wife’s car?  Why a beanie with a concert t-shirt?  Now we were both late.  Neither of us planned on being delayed an hour in front of that broken down Sears.  Was his wife waiting?  I found myself happy he didn’t have a watch.  I knew how late we were.  My life demands my Timex.  As I passed the phone back to him, he puffed on his e-cigarette.

“Thanks for being so cool,” I grinned as I shook the driver’s hand.  I was out of body trying to be empathetic.

“I’m sorry.”

I breathed in Alaska’s sunlight.  I reflected on the accident, the insurance claim, the parking lot, the bent bumper, my upcoming appointment at the body shop, and my phone’s dying battery, and I kindly lied. “No problem.”