I had high hopes for this cafe. Maybe that was the problem. I held it to too high of a regard. After all, it was just an overpriced latte kind of cafe in the northern suburbs of Boston. But I felt that this cafe would solve all the obstacles of writing a novel. It would be a routine. It would be an inspiration. It would be the nostalgic sitcommy fantasy that I so craved. To say I put a bit too much pressure on this cafe would be an understatement. I had plans to stay at the cafe for a few hours every day and bang out a book.

So of course it turns out that I can never go back there. 

The very first day that I summoned the courage to get out of bed and drive over to the cafe, it went rather well. I spent 5 dollars and 78 cents on a latte and the tip. It was a pretty alright latte. It had banana flavor in it or something. The barista brought it over to my table. It was a cute place with free wifi and plenty of seating, including a few comfy looking corner couches. I felt productive even though I hadn’t written a word. The whole vibe of the scene made me feel like I was a writer. The sip of coffee, the furrowed brow. The determined tapping at keys. I had great intentions for the morning. I felt the momentum rising. 

I zoned out and eavesdropped on some conversations…

“I love my husband, but…” an older lady started to complain… 

I went to find the bathroom and at once I felt uncomfortable. Maybe I should leave. Call it a premonition. Yeah right. I took a dump and went back to my spot. I had left my laptop there and my latte, and it was still there when I got back. I had no doubt that it would still be there. I still felt uncomfortable. I decided to leave. It was almost time for work anyway.

I walked out and the sun felt nice. Everything is going according to plan until my boyfriend’s car was not in the spot where I had parked it. My heart dropped. I looked around desperately. Anyone who has had their car towed in Boston knows this moment. But then, across the parking lot, I saw a car that looked suspiciously like the car I was driving. I walk over and look inside. It is his car. The key I had unlocked the door. I climbed in quickly and shut the door. I sat there in the summer heat, quiet and confused. Is this the beginning of my insanity? But no, I was almost sure that someone had moved the car across the parking lot. But how and why? The car had a new dented scratch in it too. What terrible luck. 

What happened next was that my ego took over and I could not let the situation go. I also had to verify that I was not imagining things. I got more and more upset over it. It was so unfair. This was a personal attack on my character, of course. This meant war. How dare they damage the car and not say anything. It’s a hit and run. I became obsessed with finding the culprit. I went after the property manager who runs the parking lot. I went after the towing company. All this sealed the fate of me never returning to this cafe. 

There is a law in Massachusetts about towing cars on private property. They did not follow the procedure of giving fair notice. I thought I could use this misstep to my advantage and get the towing company to admit fault. My boyfriend told me that he might not even file the insurance claim. Fine. But I still needed someone to come clean. I needed to even the score. If not for me, then for all the other vulnerable people who have been fucked over by towing companies and had no recourse. I read a news article about towing companies in Boston damaging cars and getting away with it. The injustice. No one is going to fuck with me and get away with it. Hopefully. I wrote a bad review on the property’s google review page. I deleted it. On the bright side I’ve taken up the hobby of reading bad reviews. It’s incredibly entertaining and satisfying if you are mad at a company. 10/10 would recommend. 

It isn’t over yet though. I am waiting for the towing company to call me back and “figure something out.” I might just call them first. 

I called them.

The owner picked up the phone and I braced myself for a load of bullshit. 

“So it turns out that the damage was from us,” the towing company owner, John, said.

I paused in disbelief.

“Wow, uhm well thank you,” I stammered, “seriously, I mean, for your honesty, I really appreciate that.”

“I could give you cash for your pain and suffering,” the owner said with just a twinge of mocking.

I couldn’t help but smirk. He couldn’t see me over the phone anyway. 

“I mean we can just sort this out through insurance,” I said, curious to hear the answer.

“That would cost me a whole lot to go through my commercial insurance and it wouldn’t be good for me.”

I was again taken aback by the honesty. Of all the towing companies, we ended up with the most honest one. What luck. Towing companies have a bad rep. 

“Understood, understood…” I said with compassion, “Okay well let me think this through and get back to you… but how much do you think is reasonable for a cash payment?”

“500.”

“Yes, that is reasonable. Okay well I will call you back soon.”

“Okay, thank you.”

“Thanks. Bye.”

I didn’t have to think about it. We would take the cash. I called back and told him so. It wasn’t really about the money anyway, it was about settling the score. If we went through insurance it would be unfair to the towing company. I thought this was a good ending to the story. It was honorable. Tit for Tat. 

We drive over to the towing company’s office, about 20 minutes down the road. I am nervous because I had never been paid off before and didn’t know how to act.

We get there and its this cute, clean little office with a great big wooden service desk that divides the room in half. One side for the customers, one side for the company. No door to get to either side. We waited for John to come down. We hear a little child playing in the back.

“John!” we hear the boy yell, obviously excited to exhibit whatever he had discovered. 

The office is attached to a house. John comes through a door behind the desk. He is a shorter man, with some graying hair but a boyish face. Honest, twinkling eyes. Not unattractive. He had on pants with two reflective stripes at the shins and ankles, the kind that you see towing truck drivers wear. He was prepared for a call at any moment. The child comes out to see who is there, a blonde boy with a sideways baseball cap. He is playing with the keys in that innocent child-like way, careless and unaware of our business there. The boy looked at us and smiled, we smiled back, he went about his quiet play. The adults exchange hellos and the owner asks for my driver’s license. I left it in the car but I go get it. I come back and he makes a photo copy. Hands me a paper to sign: DAMAGED VEHICLE RESTITUTION, One-time Cash payment of $500. He signed it first.

“It’s done,” I say, to indicate that I would no longer be pursuing the incident. I signed it with a strong hand. He gave us a copy and an envelope with the money. We count it. 

“Good luck,” he said, and we walked out the door.