Money Can't Buy You Class

It was time to move the car. Earlier I had driven to Red Hook to the new Fairway to buy groceries. Early Tuesday morning is a perfect time to go. The store is empty.

I parked my car and began the long wait, Mabel by my side, with the TIMES to read. I felt a bump as a Jeep hit my back bumper while parking in the smallish space behind me. Such things are typical, and I paid it no mind. Suddenly I heard a car door slam and an enraged voice yelling "you hit my f-cking car, you motherf-cker. You hit my f-cking car. You f-cking piece of shit." And so on. If you didn't listen carefully, all you heard was "f-cking f-ck f-cking f-ck." I looked out my window and saw that the Jeep was occupied by an older Latino guy, the super of a building nearby. He is a calm quiet guy with whom I have a nodding acquaintance since we often park near each other. The yelling was from the guy behind him in a huge ugly Escalade with blacked-out windows. The guy had gotten out of his car. He was what we call a "Guido." Black hair slicked back, sweating forehead, deep suntan, Gucci loafers, an expensive watch. He was screaming that his car was a "sixty-five thousand dollar car" and so on. I got out, mostly to be a witness in case he started a fight. I got between him and the super. I told him to chill out. I said that the bump was harmless, that the jeep had bumped my car too and that he should park in a garage. He said to me "I have two garages. This is a $65,000 car. I hate this f-cking shit" and so I walked away. I decided to move to another block. I noticed, later, that the Jeep had moved also. The Escalade was still there.

What would he say if he got back to his car and someone had let the air out of his tires?