Chevy (Hit and) Runs Deep

  For the first few years after earning my drivers license, I only drove around my dad's pick-up, a white 1981 Chevy Silverado. Dad let me drive the truck quite a bit, usually with a Hutch Only stipulation.
  Dad never knew this, but I committed two hit-and-runs in that truck. The first was outside of  Gamblers, a short lived bar on Hutchinson's east side. Gamblers allowed you to enter at 18, an allowance most likely made to attract younger patrons of the female persuasion.
  I was 18 myself so I was very sober when this occurred, just not yet very experienced behind the wheel of a vehicle. I had just arrived, and finding that I had parked the truck uncomfortably close to the Ford Explorer beside me, attempted to back and re-park. Not yet having many opportunities to drive at night, I turned my wheel too soon, scraping the right side of the trucks front bumper down the driver side of the Explorer.
  I hightailed it out of there! A few blocks down the road I pulled into a Kwik-Shop parking lot and checked for damage. There was nothing! No marks on the truck, no collection of paint from the Explorer. Nothing! Elated at my good fortune, I went back to Gamblers, parked on the opposite end of the lot, and on my way inside walked past the victim-mobile to see what I had done. There was a huge gash in the green paint all the way down the length of the Explorer. I had fucked that bitch up!
  Upon entering the bar I had a waitress that I knew sneak me a beer.

  The second occurrence, I was meeting a friend who was just about to end her shift at an assisted living center. She had already pulled away, and I was to follow. Again, it was night. And again, I turned my wheel to soon.
  This time the victim was a little compact car with a hatchback. The front bumper of the Silverado caught the other car at the driver side door, and actually began to lift the rear of the little car as I backed. The further I backed, the higher it lifted. I thought about putting the truck back into drive, but   I was so close that had I gone forward, my entire side would have scraped against theirs. My only other choice was to commit and keep backing, which is what I did.
  The rear of the car lifted from the ground even more until I reached it's rear bumper. I gave the truck a tiny bit more gas and I had come free. The car fell back to the pavement and, unbelievably, the hatchback flew open! Once again, I fled, and reaching my friends house, I asked her mother for a flashlight to check for damage on the truck. Again, nothing!
  If I learned anything from those experiences, it was this: Nothing sticks to a '81 Chevy Silverado.