STEVEN KALAS: Taking responsibility of our actions is a matter of being human

Maybe I awakened some long-slumbering convenience store curse the day I selected a Coca-Cola from the refrigerator case, changed my mind in favor of a Mountain Dew, and arrogantly replaced the unwanted Coca-Cola bottle in the bin containing Monster Energy drink. All I know is that, since then, I have been involved in not one but two fender benders in this very parking lot. What are the odds?

The first one involved me and young Bif. (I’ll call him “Bif” to protect his privacy.) Bif was driving this gigantic lunk of an aircraft carrier disguised as a car. He was in the driver’s seat of the USS Brigadier Bif when I pulled in, parked to his immediate right, got out of my car and went in to get a Coca-Cola.

When I came out, Bif was on the sidewalk staring at the way his car’s right front fender had regrettably docked with my driver’s side door. Apparently Bif had decided to leave but had neglected to look to his right and notice that a car was parked there. Specifically, my car.

Now, the thing is, this parking lot is considered private property. So, technically, Bif is not guilty of a moving violation. I could call for a police officer, but all the officer would do is pull up and say to me: “Wow. Bummer.”

Insurance? “Uh, no, not exactly,” Bif says, squirming. “But here’s my ID.” The ID had no photo. It was some crumpled paper with his name on it. Or somebody’s name. He gave me his phone number. More accurately, he recited a phone number. Might or might not have been his phone number. Sure enough, Bif vanished. Bif screwed me.

Bif, if you’re reading this, you owe me $800 cash. I’m sure you’ll do the right thing.

Fast forward several months to this morning. Same store. On my way to work, I pull into the Brigadier Bif Memorial Parking Bin. Go-go-go. Head scattered, which is kinda redundant if it’s the life of Steven Kalas you’re observing. Cutting things close, timewise, but I’m in dire need of antacids to neutralize the bride and groom of Coffee and No Breakfast, whose nuptials took place about 30 minutes ago in my stomach.

I park. I pull the hand brake. Into the store. I’m paying for Tums when the door opens and Maggie comes in, asking aloud who owns the black Honda CRV. (I’ll call her “Maggie” to protect her privacy.)

Apparently I neglected that last little pull, tug and distinctive “click” on that hand break I mentioned earlier. After I left the scene, my CRV decided to go exploring the parking lot. Backward. The foray came to a quick and sudden halt when the spare tire on the back of my car regrettably docked with Maggie’s driver side front panel.

Maggie took offense at these events.

Insurance? “Yes,” I say, but then, wouldn’t you know it, I can’t find my insurance card. I give her my business card. I show her my driver’s license. The strained expression on her face screams the nonverbal that I’m a lying sack of equine apples.

And that’s what breaks my heart. It’s bad enough that this nice woman has to be maddeningly inconvenienced with insurance adjusters and appointments at the auto body shop. Bad enough that I was egregiously inattentive and ruined her otherwise terrific morning. But it kills me that she is steeling herself to be screwed. Just kills me.

I think of Bif. “OK, Bif,” I think. “Let me show you how it’s done.”

“Look me in the eye,” I insist to Maggie. “This was my fault, and I’ll be responsible for it. I will call you within the hour.”

And I do call. And you can hear the relief in Maggie’s voice. And perhaps she hears the relief in my voice, when I hear the relief in hers.

I’m really, really sorry, Maggie. I was careless. I can only be grateful that my mistake did not intersect an unwitting mother or father pushing a stroller. Or a toddler wandering across the parking lot. I know that doesn’t make it any less annoying and inconvenient for you. But, still.

People make choices. Choices have consequences. Consequences are real. Some of the consequences are rather nasty. There is no negotiating with this: If it matters to be human, then it matters that we take radical responsibility for all of the consequences of all of our choices, even the consequences we neither expected nor intended.

Perhaps it fell to me to redeem Bif.

Steven Kalas is a behavioral health consultant and counselor at Las Vegas Psychiatry and the author of “Human Matters: Wise and Witty Counsel on Relationships, Parenting, Grief and Doing the Right Thing” (Stephens Press). His columns appear on Sundays. in the Las Vegas Review-Journal. Contact him at 227-4165 or skalas@reviewjournal.com.