“The car has become a secular sanctuary for the individual, his shrine to the self, his mobile Walden Pond.” ~Edward McDonagh
A while back my friend Christy’s car was stolen. I was under the impression that I lived in a nice town where I could leave my doors unlocked and stroll downtown where I might say hello to a neighbor, a shop owner, and the local cop on my way to getting a newspaper and a cup of coffee. But I don’t walk to get my paper anymore. And I brew the coffee at home. So, I must have missed when my town turned into a place where my friend’s car could get stolen just three blocks from where I grew up.
Even though I knew guys in high school who stole cars to joy ride on drunken weekend nights, I was still pretty shocked that Christy’s car was stolen. She wasn’t very upset about it though. She called the police and filed a report. She called the insurance company. They gave her a hard time. But she took it all in stride in a shrugging sort-of way. “It happens. I’ll just get a new car.”
So, I went to the used car lot with her. The salesman recognized her and, seeing her approach, already had the keys in his hand for the car he was sure she’d want. “Red one, in the front, right?” Again, Christy didn’t think this was extraordinary. I did. Who has a familiar relationship with their car dealer? I mean, you’d have to buy cars pretty often (which she doesn’t) or be the sort-of person who inspires others to remember you for some reason. I mean, I think Christy is memorable. But she’s my friend. I’ve been known to be wrong, but I thought it was only annoying or inordinately sweet people who were remembered by sales people, and Christy’s neither.
We jumped in the red car to give it a trial run through the neighborhood behind the car dealership. As we rounded a corner, Christy slowed down when she should have been speeding up. She was looking … at … something …. And I finally saw it, too. Her stolen car on the side of the road. That’s right. We stumbled upon her missing vehicle while test driving the car she was going to buy to replace it.
So, we called the cops and they told us not to do anything until they arrived. When they did, we all approached the car together to assess the situation.
Christy immediately opened the trunk, knocked some plastic containers out of the way, and sighed. She reached in and grabbed the massive CD holder and clutched it to her chest. “This was all I cared about.”
“You didn’t care about the car?” Cop said.
“That’s just a car,” she said. “This is a lifetime of collecting.” Christy then turned and headed to the car we were test driving to put her CD collection in a safe place.
The cops looked at each other with cocked heads and furrowed brows. They shook it off then circled the car and peered in. “Looks like they trashed it,” Cop said to Other Cop. “Is that your stuff in there?” Cop said to Christy when she returned. He pointed to papers and crumpled things and empty beverage bottles.
Christy peered in. “Yep.”
“Is that your root beer?” Cop asked pointing to a half-full bottle in the cup holder.
“Yeah.”
“It is?” Cop asked again. He seemed disappointed.
“Yeah, that’s my root beer,” Christy answered definitively putting the case of the 1/2 full root beer to rest.
Cop opened the car door and pointed to the wires coming out of the bottom of the dashboard. “Looks like something happened here.”
Christy peered in. “No, it was like that.”
Cops exchanged another look.
Cop looked a little closer. “The key’s in it.”
Christy looked. Thought a second. Then explained that she found a spare key in the car not too long ago but she thought her boyfriend brought it in the house. He must not have.
The cops were openly amazed. “Really? You left a key in the car.”
“Well,” Christy explains matter-of-factly, “I thought it was in the house. There’s a similar looking key in the house that appeared one day shortly after I found this key in the car. So, it’s a natural assumption.”
The cops were amused and absolutely incredulous by this point but dutifully continued examining the outside of the car. “Was this scratch there?”
“Yeah.”
“This one?”
“Oh, that’s from when my boyfriend shoveled me out of a snowbank.” By this time, whenever Christy spoke, the cops watched her with rapt attention.
They did find a few new scratches. The joy riders had hit a picket fence they decided.
“That’s not so bad,” Christy said after glancing at it.
“Hardly matters,” Cop muttered.
Meanwhile, I hadn’t actually gotten over the fact that we’d happened upon her stolen car. “Can you believe we found the car?” I kept asking. But the cops ignored me. I might as well not have been there for as fascinated as they were with Christy.
“Does this happen often?” Christy finally asked, probably taking pity on me. “Do people find their own cars?”
The cop shrugged. “More often than you’d think.”
It was utterly unremarkable to him that we found the car. But they were clearly enjoying Christy if sidelong glances, head shakes, and bemused grins were any indication. They were pretty entertained by a woman who didn’t apologize for a messy car, or act ditzy for leaving a spare key in the center console, or complain about her boyfriend scratching her paint, or try to blame dents and dings on the car thieves. In fact, I’m pretty sure she made such and impression on them that they’d probably remember her and say hi if they saw her walking down Main street to get a newspaper and a cup of coffee.
