When the tow truck finally arrived–forty-five minutes later than they said–Melinda was standing next to her car, arms crossed.
“Hello, ma’am. OK, so let’s see…”
The tow truck driver peered into the car.
“All right. Let’s do this.”
He took the tire iron he was holding and smashed Melinda’s driver’s side window with it.
She jumped. “What the–what are you doing?”
The driver stared back at her, not understanding. “You were locked out of your car, right?”
Melinda held up her keys. “No–I have a flat tire.”
He looked back at the car, taking note of the deflated tire. “Oh, yeah…huh. OK, let me back up the truck, then.”
He took off back to his truck before Melinda had the chance to yell at him about her window.
She was checking messages on her phone when she heard the crunch. She looked up to see the hood of her car crinkled like tin foil, and just in time to watch her front bumper drop to the street.
“Oh man…sorry about that, ma’am. By the way, I forgot to mention: My name’s Dave, and I’m an alcoholic.”
Melinda stood there, hand over her mouth in disbelief. Then she went back to her phone to check her recent calls.
That explained it. She had dialed Double A.