Door Ding Ding-A-Lings

I don't ask much when I drop off my kids at school. The following situations are unacceptable: 1. Open gunfire on the sidewalk between renegade teachers. 2. Signs that read, "All parents will be strip-searched before entering building." 3. Other signs that read, "It is strongly recommended that you get a rabies shot when you leave this place." 4. Fourth graders in a booth advertising nipple piercings. 5. The principal waving goodbye to her parole officer. 6. Random hugs from a troupe of clowns and mimes.

And, of course, door dings.

It's a close call between the clowns and mimes and the door dings.

Up until a few months ago I didn't worry about door dings because I drove a Saturn. It was plastic and aluminum and nearly indestructible, plus at 215,000 miles I could have traded it straight-up for a three-ringed binder and a packet of #2 pencils and come out ahead on the deal.

Now, however, I drive a 2006 Toyota Corolla and I worry more. I worry because of cars like the silver Taurus that pulled in next to me this morning in the school parking lot. The boy in the back, probably 10 years old or so, quickly shot his door open.

Wham! It smashed into the side of my car, driver's side rear door.

I got out to have a look. And there it was, a good ol' ding with a scratch to boot. I looked at the boy reproachfully as he and his mother approached to get a closer look. I rubbed on the scratch with my thumb and waited for them to say something.

And she did. She said, "Well, that's not as bad as people usually give me."

I looked up in astonishment as they turned to walk toward the school entrance. That was it. No "Sorry about that, my son has an inner ear infection and his coordination is way off." No "We apologize, we just heard on the radio that our house was on fire." No "Oops, I was distracted because my mom was telling me that she's entering alcohol rehab this afternoon."

Nothing. Just a view of their backsides as they walked into the school.

My kids and I followed soon after. I was in a grouchy mood, and I railed against bad children, and worse parents, and how with an upbringing like that there was no doubt in my mind that the kid would end up no good. By the time we got to their classrooms, I had that kid wallowing in the seedy underbelly of society - behind bars, dealing meth, pimping, robbing girl scouts, beating up old ladies, etc. That kid, I was convinced, was Charles Manson, Jeffrey Dahmer and the Unabomber all rolled into one foul package.

My son went down the hallway to put his backpack away while I got my daughter settled in. When he came back he said, "Dad, I saw that kid who hit your car. He told me to tell you that he was really sorry."

Oh.

I guess I overreacted. And I guess that restored my faith in the basic goodness of people.

But I still have that door ding. And I still hate clowns and mimes.