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I haven’t had any brushes with the law, but while trying to have my son’s car repaired I felt like I was under interrogation. The clerk at the service desk appeared to be a genital soul. He was probably 15 years my senior with short cropped grayish back hair and slow movements. He greeted me with a warm hello then the interrogation began.
Clerk: “What
year is the car?”
Me: “Oooo, I
don’t know, old.” I searched my purse for the car registration; three or four of
them tumbled onto the counter. I had registrations to everyone’s car- mine, my
moms, and finally my sons.
The clerk
waited patiently for my response.
Me: “Here is, it’s a 1994 Buick,” I said with
accomplishment in my voice.
I guess that
wasn’t enough information for the clerk.
Clerk: “What
type of Buick?”
Me: “Hmmm, it’s
a four door. I don’t think it’s a Regal.”
Was I really
supposed to know all of this information? You may not be able to tell, but I’m
not car savvy (I CAN check my oil and tire pressure, but that’s it).
The couple
of times I’ve been in the car with my son, I could barely see out of the
passenger window. There is plastic covering the window to keep out the cold air
that seeps through the window that doesn’t go up all the way. All I can say is,
it’s a first car.
With a
slight smile, the clerk hit me with another question.
Clerk: “Do
you know the color of the car?”
By now I
guess the clerk thought I was a real idiot.
Me: “YES,”
finally a question I could answer. “It’s burgundy.”
When my son
returned from moving the car, I asked him what the model of his car.
“It’s a
Regal,” he said without hesitation.
“Oh, that’s
what I said the car was not.”
In my spare time, I may take an auto mechanics
class.
Have you
ever felt under interrogation as a parent?
