Everyone has those crazy stories that they share. You know, how you met your significant other, the one where you give a lesbian a lap dance, or the one where you stole a car. Wait, I'm getting ahead of myself. Well, Brad knows all my stories. He still laughs [politely] or says, 'yeah, you've told me that one.' Until a couple of days ago where I referenced the stealing of the car.
He asked if I was kidding. Then wondered why I had never told him before. 'Um, because it's embarrassing.' I replied.
I got my su-weet 1993 Toyota celica at the end of 1998.  It has a mere 120,000 miles on it when it became mine. It had a CD player, spoiler and sun roof. The trifecta of awesomeness for a car, and the minimum requirement for any vehicle I was to ever own from then on out.
I was also dating a frat guy at the time. And, I was coming home late one night, driving through the small town that I lived. When out of nowhere a car comes up fast behind me. And then it flipped on its blue lights.  Being such a small town, my car was quite conspicuous at 2 in the morning.  I began to pull over.  (Did I mention it was raining? Well, it was.)  The car got closer. "I'm getting over!" I yelled at the angry blue lights behind me.
I swerve to my right, and hit a drain.
And blow out my front right tire. My hubcap goes rolling into the ditch.
The car passes me. Unimpressed with my late night shenanigans.
And so not concerned with my flat tire.
I roll slowly into a grocery store parking lot and stop under a light. I get out to assess the damage.
"Fuck!" I yell at the sight of my flat tire. Frustrated, I call my parents. Who are not the least bit amused by being woken up at such an hour. Mom declares she's not getting out of bed (See, I've told you she's nuts). I call Kyle. My savior.  He says he's on his way with his dad.
Miffed, I cross the street in search of my hub cap.  Drizzly rain begins to mat my hair. Whimpering, I pick the fake metal hub cap out of the grass and huff as I cross the desolate road once more. A cop car comes toward me from the other direction. I shake the hub cap in their general direction and scream, "This is your fault!" They slow down, roll down their window and ask what happened. I tell them of the reckless cop driver who ran me off the road. They wanted to know if the lights were blue or red (apparently that makes a difference.) Blue.
Well, blue, yes, there was a break-in at a church and the car was responding.
Yeah, well, I want you to pay for my new tire! And change it, please?
They pulled in to help me.  The drizzle had turned to full on rain.  I was standing there in a cute yellow poncho from the Gap.  The officers were not so lucky. Kyle and his father arrived and now I had four men helping me change my tire.
I was still angry.
The next day, I took my car to a tire shop and reluctantly shelled out 80 bucks for a new tire. When I called the police station and explained my plight, demanding they pay for my tire, I'm pretty sure I could hear them stifling laughter through the phone.
The tire shop was busy for our little town. Maybe the cops had been on a running-citizens-off-the-road rampage the night before. One can not be too sure.
I ask how long it will be.
Possibly 3 hours.
I of course, was tired. Seeing that I was whining about a tire at 3 a.m.
The owner tells me he has a blue truck out back with the keys in it.  I could take it home and sleep and he would call me when my car was ready.
I go out back and see a blue truck. It's unlocked. And the keys were inside.
Seeing that I was used to driving a small sports [type] car, the truck was a little cumbersome.  I backed it out carefully, checking the mirrors and slowly rolled forward.  I pulled out on the street in front of me and waited my turn at the stop sign.  I needed to make a left turn. And the road was a little busy, so I kept waiting.
In this big blue truck.
Suddenly, this guy burst out of the tire shop and ran over to me yelling.
"That's my truck! What are you doing?"
That was not the owner.
I crank the window down. "What?" I could feel my face turning red.  Several people had walked outside and were staring at me.
"That's my truck." The guy repeated.
It hadn't occurred to me that there might be two blue trucks unlocked with the keys inside (Have I mentioned it's a small town?).  I took the wrong truck.
And now I was blocking traffic in a [technically] stolen vehicle.
Rather than making a right turn, make the block and come back and return the truck, I stayed committed to my difficult left turn.  My face growing more and more red. My nervousness increasing with the crowd of people watching me drive this giant, clunky auto.
I eventually brought it back. Collected the correct truck and went to sleep.
Obviously, this isn't a story I've shared with many people. Until now. Because I can look back and laugh.
And, I'm sure you're wondering about that lap dance. Well, it was her birthday and she was a friend. And, well, that's another story.


  1. The lap dance is also now David's favorite story in the world.

  2. I love it! How were you to know, right? Ahh, college years!