As we returned the Porsche the next day, I asked Jade to inspect the tire. "See any damage from my little run-in with the curb?" I asked her.

She bent down and ran her hand along the rim. "Looks good," she said. "And it better, because he's going to inspect this with a microscope."

The rental agent, still dressed to the teeth, joined us in the parking lot. "How'd it run for you?" he asked.

"Like a dream."

He slowly walked around the car, scribbling on a clipboard. "Yes, it's a wonderful automobile," he said, then stopped and frowned. "What happened here?" He pointed to the side panel just in front of the tire.

The happiness drained from my body as I saw it was bent inward. It was a clean bend, so that it looked like it was designed that way. But when I walked over to the other side of the car, it was clean and smooth. "Oh shit," I whispered.

The Porsche dealer was visibly unhappy. "I hate damage," he began to chant. "It's such a problem. Not good. Oh, I hate damage. Not good, not good."

Jade and I accompanied him back into the office, and I kept hoping I was in a bad dream. "We're covered, right?" I whispered to Jade.

"Thank God I paid an extra $20 for the optional insurance."

I let out my breath. "Great."

"But there's a $1000 deductible."

Suddenly I got dizzy and saw spots.

"On top of the $250 I paid for the car rental."

I had a brief hallucination involving Annette Funicello and bacon, and then I briefly blacked out.

When I came to, we were sitting at the desk of the rental agent. He was still repeating, "Oh, how I hate damage. Not good. I don't even know how to estimate damage to that part of the car. This is not good, not good."

Suddenly I had a ray of hope. "We charged this to our American Express," I said, "so we should get automatic rental coverage." I quickly phoned their hotline, where a gentleman asked me details of the accident in a dull monotone. "Where did the accident occur? Who was at fault? What is the estimated damage?" he droned with the excitement of a wet cereal box. Finally he asked the dreaded question: "What was the make and model of the rental car?"

I hesitated. "It was a ... well, a Porsche."

As if shook out of his deep and heavy sleep, he suddenly brightened. "Sir! We do not cover luxury automobiles!" he said, firmly.

"I really can't stand damage," whispered the rental agent, rocking autistically in his chair.

I rubbed my temples. "What is my recourse, then?" I asked.

"You have to fix the automobile," said the Amex employee, matter-of-factly.

"Not good. Not good," chanted the rental agent.