Although I lived in a Detroit suburb for ten years, I freely admit that I’m not a “car guy.” Most of the experiences I have had with cars have been negative: from the moment I wander into the showroom, there to be attacked by the smarmy, overbearing car salesman, all the way to the end-of-life scenario, where I’m standing in front of the guy in the auto repair shop, watching him pulling the lever on the old-fashioned adding machine over and over, toting-up the cost to return my aging vehicle to the road, from which it’s been towed, and exercising the only option available to me: sell him the car for $100.00, pretty much all bad.
Now, I did recently wax poetic about my relationship with my 2012 Ford Fusion (column link below), but, in the interest of full disclosure, I should tell you that this vehicle was retired from the fleet less than a year after I penned this column, after delivering more than 213,000 miles of service - R.I.P., dear friend (and, by “dear friend,” I mean “expensive hunk of steel” (or, at least some steel - these days, automobiles are mostly composed of plastic, I think).
America’s love affair with cars began almost immediately after the automobile was developed. Not so with me - perhaps I’m missing that gene. I have long viewed a car as a necessary evil - it’s tough to survive in today’s world without the ability to hop in a car and go.
I’ve had my share of misadventures with cars, including running out of gas (twice), and being stranded on the side of the road (also twice, including once on the Kennedy Expressway in Chicago - good times!), but I think my most memorable automotive mishap was when I misplaced a car, and couldn’t locate it until eight or so hours after I first began looking for it.
Allow me to describe for you how I came to misplace a car - you would think it couldn’t be that easily accomplished, but, I’m here to tell you that, with the proper amount of negligence and forgetfulness, it can be done.
Having just moved to the Philadelphia area many years ago, with a wife and three young children in tow, a colleague at the Philadelphia Inquirer (thanks, Gari!) set me up with tickets to the Ringling Bros. and Barnum & Bailey Circus, likely at the old Spectrum in south Philly. We were officed back then on Broad Street, in the heart of Center City, in Philadelphia, not far from the Spectrum. So, the plan was for me to commute by train downtown to my office, and my wife would drive down later with the kids to retrieve me, and we would head off to the circus that evening, ending up with one car, rather than two, for the return home after the circus.
I had borrowed a fleet automobile from the Inquirer, during my relocation process, and had not yet returned the car to the company. Therefore, I drove early that morning to the Lansdale commuter train station, a spot I had never visited before, intending to park the car, and hop the train down to Center City. As I arrived at the train station, I noted that all the parking spaces located in the near vicinity of the train station required a permit, and would elicit a parking ticket, if one were not affixed to the vehicle. I’d like to think that my decision not to park in one of these spots anyway (because, you know, the car didn’t belong to me) represented my taking the high moral ground, but, let’s face it, I probably didn’t want to upset my employer by sticking it with the cost of a parking ticket - clearly taking advantage of its good nature, in allowing me the use of one of its cars.
In any event, I reasoned that there must be a radius encircling the train station, beyond which street parking would be allowed, sans permit. And so, I began searching nearby streets, until I arrived on a street which appeared to welcome strange vehicles, without charge. I parked, and began marching my way to the train station, a journey which was more than I had bargained for, but one which led me, eventually, to the train station.
My wife and kids arrived at the office that evening to pick me up, and off we went to the circus. We had a great time, and, yes, the circus at that time still maintained their dancing elephant force - PETA hadn’t gotten around yet to spoiling that fun. After the circus, we loaded into the car, and headed north to Lansdale, with the goal of dropping me off, thereby to reclaim the car I had left there that morning, and all of us would head home.
As we arrived at the Lansdale train station, I attempted to recall where, exactly, I had parked the car, just that morning. It now being late in the evening, it was significantly darker than when I had arrived there in the morning. After driving aimlessly around the train station neighborhood (you know, outside the permit radius) for an uncomfortably long period of time, we decided to travel home, to allow the kids to go to bed, as the hour was now approaching midnight, on a school night, and I would then return to the scene of the crime, alone, and search for the car.
Well, I did just that, and, spent an additional, uncomfortably long period of time driving aimlessly around the area, without success. It was at this point that I encountered the local police force. I cannot recall whether a policeman in a patrol car discovered a motorist driving aimlessly around the area, after midnight, or if I stumbled upon the police station of my own free will, and determined that perhaps the cops could assist me in my search for the car - it was twenty-five years ago, after all.
Nonetheless, I found myself in the Lansdale police station, which resembled not so much a suburban police station, located in a major metro area, as a small-town, Mayberry-type police station, in which the local police chief (let’s call him “Andy”), and his deputy (hmm. . .maybe we call him “Barney”) greeted me with open arms, and seemed to welcome the drama of a late-night search for a missing vehicle.
I’m pretty sure they offered me a cup of coffee, as we chatted (although I don’t recall them offering me a piece of apple pie from Aunt Bee), and, at some point, we headed out in the patrol car, in search of my car. I would point left, and say, “I think I went left here,” and then, “Take this right,” attempting to retrace my automotive steps.
“So, what kind of car is it?” one of the cops asked me.
“Umm, it’s a white car,” I responded. That’s right, I had no idea what make and model car I was driving. If I was a Lansdale policeman, that would have made me pretty suspicious.
After this third round of driving aimlessly around the area for an uncomfortably long period of time, we gave up, and the cops released me “on my own recognizance” (that’s a legal term, which has absolutely no relevance in this instance, but I think I heard it on reruns of Dragnet, and thought it sounded cool). My plan was to return to the scene the next morning, in the light of day, and try, once again, to locate the elusive vehicle.
The next morning, I drove from my home directly to the Lansdale train station, and set out from the station, as I had done the previous morning, zigging right, and then zagging left, and then right again, in search of permit-free parking. Within a few minutes, I had arrived at exactly the right spot, and found the car.
Did I learn anything from this long-ago automotive adventure? I certainly did, and I’m willing to share that valuable advice with you: Sprinkle metaphorical breadcrumbs to mark your way back to a place to which you will eventually need to return (don’t sprinkle actual breadcrumbs, because, you know, birds); the light of day is the best time to find things; and, knowing more about the car you’re driving than just its color is probably a good idea.
Ed. note: The car currently being driven by the Rule of Three columnist is black.
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