It was inevitable, really.

The parking spaces on Fraternity Row were perpendicular to the road and had been zoned in the late 1970s for tiny late 1970s cars. Instead they were regularly occupied by enormous extended-cab extended bed pickup trucks, the kind that could carry half a farm in back and pull the other half in a trailer. The fact that the kids driving them were all at least three generations removed from anything resembling farm work was immaterial–their parents had bought the trucks to keep their kids safe, even at the expense of everyone else.

Since the trucks were never used to carry anything besides furniture at move-in and move-out, the kids tended to leave the trailer hitches in, which added another six to twelve inches to their already bloated length. Throw in opposing traffic that was always late for class and backed up and, well, it was inevitable.

So when I stood by the side of the road looking at the side of my car, which had been ripped open can opener style by a trailer hitch hanging off of a massive truck whose rear end was at least two feet outside the lines…well, it wasn’t an accident.

It was fate.

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