The night I decided I wanted to make America more dangerous started safely enough.

My mom and I were standing under Restaurant Hoity-Toity’s awnings, hiding from the drizzle, when my late-arriving dad sprang upon the scene.

“Seriously, someone’s going to think you’re the valet! What’re you wearing?” The amused lilt in my mom’s voice cut the legs out from under her scold. My handsome dad, usually a dapper dresser, had donned a puffed-up rain jacket that made him look like a pencil jammed into a large beach ball, with only its tip and eraser protruding.

“Chill, Stink Pot,” he parried back, dipping into their pool of edgy nicknames. “It’s much more embarrassing to spend $3,000 on a thin, plaid, non-functional piece of cloth. If we’re worrying about appearances, people might think you’re superficial!” He was alluding to my mom’s expensive trench, neither warm nor waterproof.

“Think of my coat as a cloak,” he continued, “I’ll be like Superman in reverse, wowing you when I remove it and reveal the suit underneath, . . . if we survive Restaurant Hoity-Toity’s long wait.” The place was the go-to spot for fancy celebrations. I’d lobbied for something edible instead, Subway or at least Panera, but even my dad— who’d gotten a promotion and with it veto power for the night—refused to vote with me.

Before my mom could lob back her own curve ball of words, an older couple rushed to join us to escape the rain, the caressing droplets having morphed into a pounding downpour. The man—sporting an ensemble rivaling my mom’s—thrust his keys in my dad’s face. “It’s the silver Porsche. My wife just had it washed, so step on it,” he commanded curtly.

My dad stood stock still, as if the words had tasered him to the spot. His eyes dulled.

Impatiently, the man jingled the keys, like a jailer taunting his prisoner. “There’s an extra $20 in it for you if you park in a secluded place. Last time, . . . .”

A savage shout threw the man back onto his heels, every word spiked with its own blade. “My husband isn’t a valet, you mother. . . .” Catching a glimpse of my widened eyes, my mom clamped down on the words. Robbed of the only language equal to the task, she snatched the man’s keys. “I’m your gal.”

Shaking free of his stupor, my dad lunged for her, but she slipped easily away, her rage a steroid that endowed her with an extra punch of speed and grace. The couple stared incredulously as she leaped into their Look-At-Me mobile and floored the gas.

The man opened his mouth, but only apoplectic puffs of air materialized. His wife shrieked, “What the . . . is she . . . .?”

The curtains that had closed over my dad’s eyes parted, revealing a mischievous sparkle. “Gosh, for all her talents, my wife’s a terrible driver.” He shook his head mournfully.

“We’ll call the police,” screamed the man, anger coloring his balding head pink as a baby’s bottom. But moments marched into minutes, and he didn’t dial.

A short eternity passed before my mom emerged from a sleek UberBLACK and tossed the keys at the couple, who collided in their mad scramble to catch them. “Parked in a secluded place, like you asked.” She named a garage several blocks away, the one that closed early, just about now, with mere seconds to spare. “Forget the ‘extra $20.’ Virtue’s its own reward.”

The man dashed into the street, his flailing arms matching his ululating yell:

“Taxi, taxi, taxi.”

His wife turned to follow, but something made her stop. She looked hard at my mom. “He made an honest mistake. You’re more upset than your husband.”

My mom said, “Betcha he won’t make another honest mistake like that anytime soon. Whaddaya think?”

My dad said, “America’s gettin’ to be a dangerous place for a certain type of honest mistake.”

The door behind us swung open, clean mahogany wood disappearing, a pretty hostess appearing in its place, the mirror image of me, with her eyes drawn from the morning sky, hair spiraling around her face in kinky curls, a perky nose set in a rebellious tilt, full African lips, and telltale latte skin. “Johnson party,” she called, winking at me. “Table’s ready,” she informed us. “Your time has come,” she decreed.

– Luba Shur

Author’s Note: Inspired by a family experience distorted beyond recognition, “No Place For An Honest Mistake” is firmly rooted in the fiction camp.