Tyranny of the Wicker Purse

During finals last semester, Cooper and I were parked on the street, patiently awaiting a few of my housemates while they finished their primping process. There are 11 of them and frankly, they're a bunch of women. I've never seen a group of boys take so long to make sure they look good. What do they need to do?? Brush their fades? It's not like there's a makeup process (at least I hope not), so I'm at a loss as to what takes them so bloody long. I'm a chapstick and go type of girl. If it takes you longer than me to get dressed and get out of the house, you have some personal problems. But moving on. I was trying to come up with a list of the Top 5 songs to listen to in the car of all time when I spotted our neighbor. She's this incontinent, gasbag senior citizen that moved to the Bend reluctantly after a shotgun wedding with her husband, The Professor... At least, that's the rumor. She has an accent that puts Scarlett O'Hara to shame and they say she's a relative of General Nathan Bedford Forrest. Were this to prove itself true, I can't say I'd be surprised. I swear I've seen her white hood hanging out of her black & white striped wicker purse on numerous occasions. It's always been a mystery to me how she came to marry a man that spent nearly 50 years learning and teaching at a Catholic school what with her supposed Klan background and all but it's none of my business.

In any case, around the same time each day, she heads off to Martin's to get The Professor a pear. I don't know why she doesn't just buy a few and pop them in the fridge but I'm not one to argue with a 48 year routine. Around the time she started her car (one of those oversized 7-series BMW sedans), The Professor ran out the house, waving his arms. The sight was fairly amusing. Though the good professor retired about 10 years ago (after 40-some odd years of dutiful service to Our Lady) and is easily nearing 80, he remains quite spry. He also reminds me of Sean Connery in Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade... but without the sexy accent.. and looks. Well, he's just Sean Connery in Indiana Jones by outfit only. "By outfit only" seems to be a theme with the random people in my life lately but I digress.

I looked up a few moments later to see the rear of a black sedan racing in my direction. When it was a block away, I didn't give it any thought and figured that it was parking or whatever else. But suddenly, it was within 20 feet of me. I thought about getting out of my car but didn't have much time to consider the matter before there was an impact, a crash of glass and plastic, and my head bounced off the headrest. I looked out the front window to see a black sedan slowly rolling forward... Attached to the dented metal by the "7" alone, the words "760 Li" swung slowly from side to side while the rear insignia, looking more like the intended white propeller on blue sky than I ever imagined it could, spun slowly to rest on my hood.

The Professor popped out of the car. "OH SHIT!" I fancy he hasn't said that in about 60 years. His hands were on his head and he was pacing about. His wife then appeared, yelling and waving her arms about, as if that would help the situation. Unaware that I was in the car, the two argued until the Mrs. found it fitting to beat her loving husband with her wicker clutch handbag. When Sophia Petrillo attacks. The scene was wicked. I intervened, grabbed the old bag's purse, and pulled The Professor away. This was a feisty old broad. She continued to shout threats from the other side of the car while The Professor and I exchanged information and waited on the SBPD. "I should have known it was you in the car. He just loves talking to you. JEZEBEL!" What? Is this a Tennessee Williams play? I ignored her and we got everything straightened out. Or so I thought.

While walking into my house this afternoon, The Professor happened by on his daily constitutional and noted that my car was back in shape. We spoke for a few minutes about football and soccer when I spotted the all too familiar black sedan cruising up the road. The Professor turned white... er, more than he was before. "Damn it to Christ! I have to leave immediately!" The problem with statements like this is that when you're 80, leaving immediately just means leaving as soon as your brain relays the message to your stems. Who knows how long that could take. He made it about two feet when the sedan pulled up on the other side of my car.

"Get away from that house of athletes and prostitution!" Prostitution? I'm glad I wasn't the only one that was confused. The Professor questioned her assertions... I won't quote her but she has long been under the belief that I've been coming in and out of this house over the past few years as a mere "service" to the inhabitants. Further, they're paying me for such courtesies. "We aren't paying for your car's damages." I stood there in absolute confusion, as, well, they already paid for the damages. "I just spoke to our insurance man and he says that you are a wreckless, teenage driver. You drove into us!" "But ma'am, my car wasn't on." "LIES! Don't talk back to me young lady. Did wolves raise you?" The fact that I glanced to my right as if to ponder the possibilities only raised her ire. "It only figures, a devil-eyed child like yourself, being a lady of the night with young men that should be going to school to learn and grow!" "Oh they're growin all right!" I don't know why I said that... it was just too good to resist. Besides, she called me a lady of the bloody night. "Our insurance is under no obligation to pay your damages." Correct me if I'm wrong but... isn't that the function of an insurance company? Paying the damages when you muck up and let your feeble-ass husband drive in reverse for 2 blocks until he crashes into a parked car at 20+ mph? I didn't know what to say... I mean, this was about 15 steps past your average senior moment. I decided to just go along with her crap. "Yes ma'am, I understand. Your insurance will not be paying for the damage." "That's precisely right young lady. You owe us $7800 for damage done to our vehicle." Now come on. "Ma'am, I was in a parked car that your husband drove into, on a suspended license no less. You're lucky I didn't tell the police that you weren't the driver!"
"LIES!"
*THWACK!*
This old wench hit me in the side with her wicker clutch purse.
*THWACK!*
She hit me again, in the shoulder this time. And what can I do? Hit her back? Hitting old ladies gets you personally escorted to the 8th circle of Hell by Satan himself. Besides, her dentures are probably made out of wood like George Washington's and the resulting splinters wouldn't be worth the effort. I could run back in the house - an act of great courage, to be sure. I could call the police... Surely they'd respond favorably to a call that a college age girl is being beaten to hell by a rampaging denture-wearer and her wooden sack. She'd probably tell them it was her attempt at citizen's arrest... capturing a lady of the night on the lam. Christ.
*THWACK!*
It was getting out of control. I pleaded with her to stop assaulting me with her purse. Around this point in time, The Professor tried to intervene. I saw then who wore wears the pants in this relationship... The Professor was a whipping post. "Stop it, please!" They fought again - he got the purse, too, much to his dismay. But in a magical moment of wills, he wrestled the wicker weapon away from his wife and chucked it about 40 feet down the road. She was appalled. "You retrieve that!" "NO!" I had a sinking suspicion that this was the first time in 70 years that The Professor had stood up to his wife. "You'll fetch it this instant!" "You fetch it! I'm going home!" And with that, The Professor walked home. His wife remained in the street shouting in vain about the trouble he was to be in. After a handful of comments he turned and said, "It is I that collects retirement. It is I that collects Social Security. It is YOU who receives the courtesy of my money! It is YOU that will fetch the purse."

Titanium balls.

All hail The Professor ... Or maybe the wife. The wicker demon is still in the street. Someone will break.