Of Lies and Stolen Fruit

I started feeling better on Saturday, having successfully nullified my intended week-long vacation with what seemed to be the flu. I decided to run some much-overdue errands, and my car (which I was just getting ready to sell) was summarily rear-ended. I started feeling bad again immediately upon impact.

Neither the guilty party nor I felt like waiting around in the hot popping sun to file a police report. (Last time I was in an accident, we waited almost two hours for a policeman to arrive.) We settled upon a “gentleman’s agreement” that he would pay for repairs if they were less than his $500 deductible, or he would file a claim with his insurance company if it was more than that. Clearly, my entire bumper is going to have to be replaced, which will most likely exceed $500 just for the part itself (for a 2005 model car that was discontinued by Dodge). Of course, my collision deductible is $1,000 (which is $999 dollars more than I can afford).

I consulted my attorney brother who instructed me to call my insurance agent and report the claim, which I did. The South Carolina driver who hit me gave a conflicting statement and is claiming the accident was my fault, which is clearly not the case, unless backing up on an interstate off-ramp indicates the rear-ended person is the guilty party. I thought that indicated insanity. Anyway, I have nothing to prove his culpability except my ruined up bumper and shattered left-rear taillights (matching his barely chipped front headlight, which he has probably already replaced with a new one). Of course, no witnesses came forward. I cannot tolerate liars, even from strangers.

As far as the annual fall/winter citrus thieves, I’ve come up with a number of possible solutions to thwart their purloining:

• Dig Punji stick booby traps along the fence line
• Inject poison into a Satsuma (or two) with a smiley face drawn on the peel and the words “EAT ME!”
• Plant blackberry bushes, cacti, agave, poison ivy, and other physically harmful vegetation
• Stretch a trip-wire that activates a suspended razor-sharp pendulum, a la Raiders of the Lost Ark
• Dig a moat (possibly stocked with flesh-starved alligators or piranhas or both)
• Post a sign that reads: “BEWARE! KILLER BEES!”
• Install a footstep-activated lifelike recording of a Great Dane, Rottweiler, Doberman, Pit Bull and Presa Canario barking angrily in unison
• Hang out in my back yard dressed as Satan with a blowgun and curare-tipped darts

It’s not that I don’t mind sharing. I wait all year to enjoy the ripened fruit after pruning, and watering, and fertilizing, and babying my only productive possession. But I’m much more likely to agree to someone picking a few of my yield if he/she knocks on my door and asks politely. Last year, I caught a crew of city workers in a van who pulled up, jumped out like a Dickey-clad SWAT team, and made makeshift baskets out of their shirts to fill up. I’ve had some guy climb over the fence and shimmy up the grapefruit tree like a Vitamin C depleted gibbon. One little reprobate got sassy with me, and I hurled a few limes at him as he swaggered down the street, then followed him to his house whereupon I let a woman in a porch rocker know that her child or grandchild was a thief. She gave me a toothless, nonplussed, unintelligible response.

I’ve almost got enough material for a book: The Stolen Citrus Saga.