Once again I find myself on the horns of a dilemma, sadly, not uncommon to my tender buttocks. 

I’m semi-totally innocent, and it begs the question, “Can it be hit-and-run if one neither hit nor ran?” 

I probably should explain: First off, let me explain the travails of a missing contact lens with a rare cornea condition, “Keratoconus.” Glasses do no good, the only correction being rigid lenses to the tune of $150 a pop. Astonishingly, I’ve lost three in the last two months. 

If you’ve seen me around town doing crossword puzzles with the page inches from my face, you’ve seen one of the effects of functioning one-eyed. I read quite fluently, provided the page is touching my nose. Depth perception, though, is another animal altogether.

Depth perception is not a big deal in most situations, but lacking it is obviously not conducive for a NASCAR driver horseshoes competitor, or roofer. I am a roofer, semi-retired since my early 40s with no financial plan for my golden years. I haven’t walked off a roof in years. Stepping off my couch, thankfully, carries little risk of a broken hip.

Okay, okay … the hit-and-run; I’m getting to it. The set-up established, I’ll get to the meat of this dilemma. I’m pulling into a Walmart parking space Friday, right about the dusk hour. I’m grooving to an FM oldies tune and thinking, “Did I just hear a noise or was that part of the song?” 

Ginger exhibited no indications of a problem, but I made a mental note to check both vehicles, just to be sure. Now parked, I notice the vehicle to my right may have insufficient room for a comfortable entry, so decided to pull forward to an advantageous, unencumbered parking space just ahead.

Here’s where my legendary limited short-term memory converges with the loud music and compromised depth perception in a perfect storm of misunderstood consequences. Just that quickly after engaging Ginger a bit, I forgot to check vehicles for the unlikely possibility my fender had introduced itself to the neighboring fender. With carefree abandon, I bought my groceries, pet food and an oven mitt, if I recall correctly, and was on my merry way.

A couple stops later, I’m home, about to slip into my sweats for another shift of sedentary oblivion when I hear a knock – seldom heard here at “the Musty Manor.”

Seeing the young officer on my porch sporting a judgmental look, I thought, “Boy does this bring back unpleasant memories.” When asked if my truck had been at Walmart earlier, it hit me like a bout of stomach flu on prom night. 

Consider the old Meatloaf classic, “It’s all coming back to me now.” I began explaining the loud radio and my lapse of memory, but all indications were he wasn’t buying it. Had I not forgotten to mention the lost contact, he may have rethought his errant perception.

After taking multi-angled photos of the foreign, surface paint on my rear fender, he left me with a hit-and-run citation. Hey, I’ll fight this injustice all the way to the Supreme Court. At worst, I’m guilty of a “graze-and-walk.”

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