What the handsome man had to say

Oh, if I could just make these stories up.  Fantastic imagination that I have, what happened today is not a scene I could concoct.  Here's the story.

I'm with an American camera crew and we've driven around shooting Rikuzentakata for hours.  We've pulled into the parking lot at city hall and are about to part ways for the day when a tall man in a crisp white shirt and pressed black pants comes up to us.  I don't notice him at first, but then he becomes impossible to ignore.

"You scratched this car," he says, pointing to the little green thing parked next to mine.  Collectively, we turn and look at him.
"Who the hell are you?" I'm about to say but don't.
"See, here," and he points to, and there it is, a scratch.  "You scratched the car when you opened the door to get out."
I'm not happy.
"Is this your car?" I ask.
"No."
"Whose is it?"
"I don't know."
"Then what business is it of yours?" I also don't ask this.
"In Japan, we're strict about these things," he says because we're a bunch of foreigners and presumably we don't know the rules.

He's right.  Every time I've rented a car the rental car agency man and I walk around the car as I point out every dent, scratch, mark, tar spot.  I've even wiped away black dots that turn out to be bits of mud left from the wash they've given the car before they entrust it to me.

The man is tall with short cropped white hair.  He's young, maybe in his thirties.  Not that I'm proud to have to include this last tidbit, but he's really handsome.  (Not that this matters.)  If he weren't such an ass, he'd be the kind of person I'd consider introducing to my friends.

But he is an ass.  He goes on and on, asking what we're going to do about this all while I hold back the steam rising up in me.

Along comes a man who turns out to be the owner of the car.
"They dented your car," he says, because he would.  He points to the scratch.
"You should get their cards," he continues, because this teeny little scratch will surely need repairing.
"It's a rental," the strange man none of us know says in what is almost a whisper.  He is surely regretting his timing, showing up into what will turn into a blow out in the next few minutes.
"Then you really need their cards," the good looking man goes on saying.  "They'll charge you for this ding."
The Japanese interpreter working with the crew offers up his card.  "Have the agency contact me if there are any problems."

I've had enough.
"Give me your card," I say to the man I will never introduce to my friends.
"You're the only one who saw us ding this man's rental car.  If the agency wants this man to pay," I point to the poor man who desperately wants to drive away, "then you're the only witness.  They agency will want to contact you I'm sure."

Clearly unaccustomed to having women speak to him this way, and much less a foreigner (god forbid) he stares at me for a minute and says, "Just play dumb, then.  Don't tell the rental company there's a scratch."
"But, they'll notice," I counter.  "You said so yourself.  Japan is strict about these things.  We'll need your contact information."  I am clear he understands I'm not asking, but telling.  This is a command.  Not a request.

And then it comes.
"I'm not someone you want to mess with."
Under any other circumstance I would bust a gut laughing at anyone who has the gall to say this, but because this man is serious I dig my nails into my palm to keep from laughing.  I don't say anything.
"You don't want to mess with me," he says again, because clearly we didn't hear him the first time and this bears repeating.

What I want to say is this:  a). "Oh, honey ... You mistake me for someone who is intimidated by pipsqueaks like you" and b). "Do I look like someone who is used to being spoken to like that?" and finally those words I have sworn I will never say, c). "Do you know who I am?"

I don't say any of this.  Of course.  Instead I do start laughing, and turn around and walk back into city hall.  I march up to my office, gather my colleagues around me and point out the window.  "Who is that guy?  He just suggested he's someone I shouldn't be messing with."  I tell them the story of what's unfolded down below in the parking lot.  There are seven of us staring out the window at this man who is gesturing and pointing with all his might.  The consensus is he's not a local, and with that I decide he's a badass wannabe and I don't need to worry about him or his thoughts on who he thinks he is.

Curious as to whether I'll ever run into him again, I've burned the image of his face into my mind for posterity.  I hope we meet again.  I think he'll be surprised at who I think I am.