One more little step connected to my traffic accident was to get a photograph of my car taken by their official photographer, a rather cheery guy with a talent for calling when I wasn't in the house. After a few rounds of him leaving messages with my father, and my leaving messages with his voice mail, he finally got me the moment I was stepping out to yoga class. We determined that although he used to have a beat that includes the area I live now, he doesn't anymore. But his beat does include where I work, which would be great except he got me at the end of my short, silly work week. He said he'd take my car's pictures my next work day, and I drove really carefully for four days and considered whether I should take pictures of my car. I should, but I didn't.
The day finally arrived, and I didn't know when he might show up, although I had my car parked in a way to make it easiest to photograph the undamaged fender. So about 9:00 am I called to ask when he wanted to photograph it; he, calling me ``my friend'' -- he never called me anything else, even when he was leaving messages on my parents' answering machine -- chuckled and said he'd be over about 10:00. So around that hour I spent a couple awkward minutes standing around the front door, wondering just how close to that hour it would be, and wondering if I had given the photographer the right phone number for the company. Among the many odd things about work is I don't know what exactly the phone number is, but I'm hoping the several-years-old mouse pads they have aren't too far off. So by the time he arrived at 11:30 (I explained what I was waiting for, so I could sit awkwardly in my office rather than on someone else's desk) I was starting to wonder if I'd been abandoned.
Anyway, it was an easy couple of minutes showing off my car. The photographer felt like one of those guys who's really easy to be around, because he's in an eternally sunny and cheery mood and is ever on the edge of chuckling. (This is probably an easier mood to go along with when your car hasn't had any detectible damage; it's less chipper if the car is a shattered pile of metal and plastic.) He got photographs of every angle of my undamaged front and a couple of the rear of my car, giving pretty good documentation of its generic car-shape averageness, and thanked me for -- I'm not sure, exactly. But he's a very chipper person and probably thanks people for any kind of interaction. I'm much the same way. He didn't hug me, but it wouldn't have been out of character either.
Trivia: Cleveland, Ohio, was originally named for Moses Cleaveland, who surveyed the area in 1796 for the Connecticut Land Company. Source: The Know-It-All, A J Jacobs.
Currently Reading: Washington Goes To War, David Brinkley.