How do you fix a bullet hole in a car? I GOT FREAKIN' SHOT AT.

Let me just preface this post with saying: I JUST GOT SHOT AT. Right now, there is a bullet hole two feet away from the driver's seat, which is WHERE I SIT WHEN I DRIVE MY CAR. Had the bullet flown two feet to the right, I'd have been hit. What the hell, man. WHAT THE HELL. This happened under two hours ago. WHAT THE HELL.

Rewind. Here's the story. I'm driving home after getting some food with Daniel, Minh, and Jerry. It starts pouring large drops of rain, somewhat ominously, and I approach my intersection. I hear what I think is a gunshot, and I think, "Shit. That was probably a gunshot. Probably not someone driving over crap in the road. Probably a gunshot. I better get home." A sketchy old red tinted out van drives away in a rushed manner and I get a little tense.

So the light turns green and I floor it. As I cross the intersection, I hear another gunshot and my car's front jerks as if I drove over some crap in the road. Hot air starts coming in through the vents (weird, because I have recirculate off) and in milliseconds think, "Shit, that WAS a gunshot. I'm pretty sure my car got hit. Shit, it was that red van. SHIT. SHIT!"

So I floor it and burn rubber up the hill. The first thing that occurs to me is that "they" know that I saw "them" and wanted to get me so that I wouldn't be able to identify "them." So I drive like mad around my block and up and around. Make sure I wasn't able to be tracked, then pull up to my garage (which was just a block away from the shooting). I timidly get out and, bam, there it is. Bullet hole. Right beneath my driver's side mirror. And to the left a little.

SHIT. I get in my car, pull into my garage. Jump out, mess with my keys and get inside. I call Cowart before I even get into my apartment. I tell him I need to talk to the cops but don't want to go down to the crime scene because there were only two cop cars and in my book, unless there are six cop cars, it's not safe. I call 911 and they send two policemen to talk to me.

They come in, we talk. They interview me, I get my driver's license number for them from Gmail (again, because I lost it), and they assure me that I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. The gunmen weren't actually out to get me, I just got caught in crossfire between a silly gang war that's been happening a couple blocks down for several weeks now. (Note: I don't really live in a bad area. In fact, I'm right on the corner of a really awesome park and next door to the Painted Ladies. In cities, every two blocks change drastically. The nicest places are right alongside the worst.)

I did see police tape and a whole bunch of cop cars down there three nights ago. In fact, I picked something up from the freakin' convenience store the night that a shooting happened. While the cops were on the scene, too. I'm not going down the street that way again for a while. On foot or in my car.

Just caught in crossfire. That's what the policemen said to me. It's believable, especially if they wanted to use my car as cover for the getaway. But the shot was so close to my physical body that adrenaline tells me to think otherwise.

We walk downstairs to my car. One policeman is very impressed with my large personal garage (I wrote about that here). He wanted me to rent it out to my neighbors.

I show them the bullet hole. He says that the bullet could have ricocheted out, but upon closer inspection we determine that it's still inside. I pop the hood but it's useless. There's a bullet somewhere inside my car's engine bay. A freakin' piece of ammunition. The policemen use some sort of digicam to take pictures of my car and they leave.

I thank them, but before they can leave I ask "What about my car?" One says, "Oh, will you be home tonight? Can we reach you on the cell phone?" "Yes, I'm not freakin' going anywhere." "Okay, CSI might call you to tow your car to recover the evidence." CSI hasn't called yet. I hope I'm safe for now.

I knew my car would get destroyed with incremental driving damage while living in the city, but this is something else. Really something else. A real battle scar, none of that "someone opened their door into me while I was parked shopping at Safeway" crap.

I'm not thankful for the bullet hole in my car. But I'm thankful I'm OK.