At 2 p.m. today, after a series of unremarkable events: yoga class, flaking on a friend because I was too tired to go for a walk, coming home to discover cleaning ladies on their way and needing to be let in, sandwich, nap, I take my car to the auto body shop for its official insurance company claim repair estimate.
As I’d previously reported here, an elephant tap danced on my hood a week or so ago. I got a preliminary estimate at the body shop I’ve used before: $1500. My deductible for “comprehensive” is $500. I decided to call my insurance agent and get the work done.
I am directed by said agent to bring my car to an unremarkable, practically unmarked, extremely narrow side street in downtown Oakland, where sits the most precious little jewel box of a body shop. Exposed brick, shiny royal blue enamel doors and sign. Inside is more exposed brick, an office area like a cross between a submarine, a modern art exhibit and a child’s playroom. Primary and secondary colors (mostly blue, red, and orange), bookshelves — full of books, yes — and antique wooden trucks and cars, framed paintings, painted sculptures and posters by SARK about living an artistic life. A long curved wall, not unlike those inside the offices of several dot-bombs I worked at during the heyday. A shiny stainless steel espresso machine. Aeron chairs at every airy workstation. Everything, everywhere, is sparkling CLEAN.
Giovanna, who will do the insurance estimate on my car, is a woman of indeterminate age — dyed black hair pulled back tightly in a bun, aqua blue eyes, soft, pale, lightly creased skin, her body outfitted in a dress-over-pants ensemble in a sari-like golden/orange crinkled raw silk, atop black platform ballet slippers tied at the ankle with black ribbons.
I compliment her on the lovely shop. She is distantly kind, business-like. A second woman, younger, also an adjuster but not for my company, in jeans and long thick brown hair, follows her and watches. Giovanna explains to us why the dent is so bad. “The hood is the thinnest piece of metal on the whole car, it’s like an oil can,” she says. “If you tried to tap it out, you’d be chasing the dent all over. You have to replace the whole thing.” And then she adds, almost apologetically, “We’ll have to paint the new hood, and then blend the paint into the fenders to match, that brings the price up.”
“I understand,” I reply. This had been explained to me at the other body shop.
We go back inside. She prints out the estimate. Around $1000.00. 1/3 cheaper than the other (my now former) body shop. I’m a little disappointed that it’s so low. There’s a part of me that wants the insurance company to have to pay a bit more, after all I’ve given them over the years.
She says the price may go down if she can find a used hood in decent shape, but not to expect anything. Doesn’t matter to me, only the insurance company will benefit from that. I suppose I may have to argue with them over the difference between the cost of new and used. We’ll see.
She says it takes 20 minutes to search for the used hood, so she’ll just let me know. I don’t quite understand what’s needed from me. So I tell her that’s fine, that I live close by. That I can go home and come back if necessary.
I’m smiling through our whole exchange. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s all the orange. I just feel, relaxed. This is… easy.
I ask her about adding on a few out-of-pocket extras — to try to make the other parts of the car look as nice as the front soon will. Yes, they can buff the rest — at a discount because they’ll already be doing the hood, replace the peeling antenna (it looks like someone tried to chew it loose) and replace the rubber stopper that’s been missing from the gas cap door since 1999.
She takes a few photos of the car, prints out the estimate. She compliments me on my multicolored stripe purse, touching it with one hand. She loves the colors and the fabric, she says. I’m not sure if I should tell her it’s from Paris, circa 2003. I never know what people will think of me for saying that and I don’t want to appear clubby or snobbish. So I just smile some more.
“Did you want to make an appointment then?” she asks.
I say yes.
“We don’t have anything available until September 10.”
That’s fine.
She looks at me with genuine surprise for a moment, then writes my name down in her book.
She ascertains that I have rental car coverage with Enterprise. “They’ll be here that morning — with cars. You’ll be able to drive one off the lot.”
How fantastic! — I respond. I’m honestly thrilled with this little detail. So nice.
“You’re so easy going,” she says.
“You know, I just don’t have that much to worry about,” I respond. (Who me? Did I really just say that? And I meant it. Extraordinary.)
We are both smiling.
She staples her card to the estimate, hands it to me.
“Stay as happy as you are,” she advises.
“See you in September…” I try to say, instead of sing, as I leave.
Wow what a nice story, and so well written. Really enjoyed reading it!