The Car Gets Stolen - Part 2

A technical point of clarification from Part 1, the car title had fully transferred but the cops had called my friend's parent's because I had no phone and they were the last known contact. So there, Wayland! Your memory is better than mine...

So the ride from Seattle to Bellingham was uneventful. I got to the bus station and my sister was there waiting for me to give me a ride to the police station.

"Hey, I hope this doesn't screw you up too much, " she said, "but I have a class in half an hour and I won't be able to stay."

"No problem," I reassure her, "I'll figure it all out and get the car and just head back. Not a problem."

Jinx.

I jinxed it right there.

So Bellingham is a smaller town and the cop shop reflected that. I'm not a cop fan, nor am I a cop hater. In fact mostly, my experience with cops have been about getting tickets. So when I go in I am surprised that this is like waiting at the dentist. The crowd is a little anxious, but resigned to it's collective fate. Finally I am called.

I go into a little office with four hugely piled on desks and people taking notes and typing stuff. It reminds me somewhat of "Hillstreet Blues" if the show was cast with people from rural America.

"Hi," said the cop I was assigned to. I sat down and told him my tale.

"Uh huh, uh huh," he said typing stuff into his IBM Selectric for his report.

"Well, seems easy enough," he finished. "All I need is your license, the police report and the car registration..."

I looked at him a little startled.

"Well, I have the first two, but the third is in the car," I tell him, thinking this sounded perfectly reasonable.

"Oh, well, I can't release the car to you."

"What?" My brain is locking up at this point. All this way and no Plan B.

"Wait a minute," I protest. Falling back to my previous cop experiences, "If you have my license and license plate number, you can run it on the computer to see if I own the car, right?"

He squinched his face, "Yeah, I suppose..."

"Well?" I shrug my shoulders. My options were limited. I should have brought doughnuts as incentive.

He walks over to the computer and after a few moments comes back satisfied.

I hand him over the i.d. and police report. He looks at both and then looks at me again.

"We've got another problem," he said somewhat sheepishly. "I can't release the car to you. The officer who filled out the police report in Seattle didn't sign it."

Officer Doughnut strikes again from afar. I close my eyes and count to ten.

"Surely," I soothed, "you don't think I have a stash of blank Seattle Stolen Car reports that I fill out and pass off to cops God knows where to get back eleven year old cars do you?"

Clearly this was a Miss Manners moment he has not planned for. He goes to talk to the dude in charge. He comes back.

"Now we don't normally do this," he says like he's just hooked me up with his supermodel sister, "but seeing as how you bussed up and all, we'll let this slide." I am both ticked and grateful that this copper is making the little people do the jig for him, but at least I can move on.

I put on my best "Gosh, what would I do without you, Officer?" mask and settle up the paperwork.

"Where is the car actually?" I asked assuming, like in the Rockford files, it'd be around back.

"Oh, yeah, you go out the door, walk down to Someplace Store on Something Street and go left until you come to Some Other Place Store and it's behind that."

"Thank you so much!" I gush.

So it is February. Cold and overcast. I set out on my little walk. Hmmn. Someplace Store is further than it sounded. So after many blocks, I reach Someplace Store and turn left. It is about this time that the Heavens open up and start dumping freezing rain. Within another few blocks I was soaked.

Even better, what the cop failed to tell me was that Some Other Place Store was actually across Belligham. I walked the breadth of Bellingham in the freezing rain.

I think it can't get worse. I was wrong.

I get to Some Other Place Store finally and find the building behind it. Sure enough there is a lot and there is my baby. At last.

So I go into the lot's office and there behind the counter is a vapid, bubblegum snapping wench looking bored.

"I'm here to get my car," I tell her and I hand over all of the paperwork.

She looks it all over, types something in her computer and looks at me with her bovine eyes, "That'll be $110,"

"No f-ing way! What?"

She rolls her eyes, "Five day storage..." Like she is explaining to a toddler.

"Fine," I say. Make this pain end.

"Check ok?"

She nods. I fill it out and hand it to her.

"Sorry, hon, " she hands the check back, "local checks only."

At this point all I have on me is my checkbook and ATM card which I would have gladly embedded in her forehead.

"Where is the nearest ATM?" I ask through gritted teeth.

"Oh, I dunno. I think the nearest one is Someplace Store on Something Street."

"Not far from the cop station?" I ask.

"Yeah," she says. Apparently ATMs are still a novelty in Bellingham in 1990.

So into the freezing rain I go. Every step I take I wish someone else dead. I get to the ATM, withdraw the money and trudge back to the lot. My mood is as foul as it gets. I am numb now I am so wet and cold. I get back to the lot and dripping water onto their floor I hand the woman there the money.

"Aw man," she says off-handedly, "Had I known you were walking, I coulda called the check in." She smiles as I feel myself want to lunge at and strangle her.

"Can I get the receipt, so I can get my car and go?"

"Here ya go, have a nice day!" She says. I look at her and if I had heat vision her head of bad, big hair would have been charred crispiness.

And again I think it can't get worse. I was wrong.

I go out to the car and open it. Slide into the car seat and stick my key into the ignition. Turn the key as the sense of something is horribly wrong strikes me. For you see, I am now looking at the various wires and parts of my ignition dangling from the steering column. This car is going nowhere.

And again I think it can't get worse. I was wrong.