a key adventure

I heard about a statistic once that said Honda Accords are the most stolen car. I don't have an Accord. I have a Civic. So I feel safe. Safe in my little Civic with its little key and the little electronic key fob thingy that pops my locks or locks my doors. Even at twenty paces. Even over the shoulder. Or perhaps, I should say, I used to feel safe.

I was leaving Taqueria del Sol with a friend today and as we said our goodbyes and it's-been-too-longs and we-should-do-this-more-oftens, I was unlocking my door with the key, not really paying all that much attention, as I've done it zillions of times. I've really got a handle on rote tasks such as these. You know, unlocking doors and flushing toilets and zipping zippers and such. I opened the door, got in, waving to my friend as I did so. I threw my bag in the passenger seat and reached to put the key in the ignition.

Wait.

I reached to put the key in the ignition? I don't have to reach to put the key in the ignition! And my feet, my feet were just sort of lying there on the mat, like two feet on the dole, with nothing better to do than I lounge on the metaphorical stoop and watch the world go buy. Why weren't they in the ready position -- left foot on the clutch, right foot on the break? AND WHY WAS I REACHING TO PUT THE KEY IN THE IGNITION?!

I looked down and saw two small demitasse coffee cups in the console cup holders. I don't have demitasse cups. I DON'T HAVE DEMITASSE CUPS! Oh my God, someone broke into my car, high on caffeine and left their demitasse coffee cups!

And then it struck me. THIS ISN'T MY CAR!

But I had to disagree with myself. It looked like my car. The steering wheel looked exactly like my steering wheel. I unlocked this car. It must be my car. But I'm reaching for the ignition and my feet are on holiday and I don't have demitasse coffee cups! Oh, sweet Jesus, through the haze of confusion, it sunk in that I was in the WRONG CAR!

So I got out. Fast. And stepped away, eyes darting wildly to see if anyone had seen me. But I was in the clear, the real owners blissfully enjoying their fish tacos and salsa trio with cheese dip, oblivious to my inadvertent violation of their property. Meanwhile, over the hood of not-my-car, I could see my own car, sitting in quiet anticipation. One. Space. Over.

I scurried a wide birth around the front of not-my-car, shooting a last worried glance at it and then froze. Because it was looking back at me as only a car WITH ITS HEADLIGHTS ON can. Here's the thing. I read once, that in Australia, they always drive with their lights on, even in the daytime and so I picked up the habit. It makes me feel vaguely international and I like feeling international, so I drive with my headlights on, too. But now my international bent had caused me to turn on the lights of not-my-car and in about twenty minutes a couple of very nice people who at this moment were probably bantering over who should eat the last dollop of guacamole, would come out to a not-my-car with a not-good-battery.

I was tempted to run. I mean, maybe they left their own headlights on. Who's to know? But my mother raised me right and I fix my mistakes. And sometimes, on good-mood days, I fix other peoples, too. (Once I even jumped through the open window of an unoccupied Volkswagen Beetle as it was rolling backwards into traffic so that I could pull the emergency break and thereby allay what would surely have been some sort of catastrophe. But now I'm just bragging.) And as I was capable of remedying this problem, whether it was my fault or not, I had to at least try. I was going to have to go back. But this time I know it's not my car. So this time I'm actually breaking and entering. And even with pure intent, it's still illegal. Even if I am the Mother Theresa of car theft, I'm still a car thief.

As I stealthily approached the driver's side, I comforted myself with the idea that perhaps it was all in my imagination. I decided that I'd just had a small mental break that made me think I'd opened the car that wasn't mine. That I had just stepped for a moment out of reality and now that I was safely in my right mind I wouldn't be able to open the door. Because going wackadoo-crazy in broad daylight is somehow less disturbing to contemplate than the simple expediency and cost-efficiency of duplicate locks and keys.

To my chagrin, I wasn't crazy. I could unlock it. So I quickly opened the door, clicked off the lights, slammed the door, (ever so quietly), locked it back up tight and ran to my own car, panting in an adrenaline-fueled rush.

Safe.

As I drove sheepishly out of the parking lot, I had only one thought in my head: what could possibly be more ridiculous, not to mention more dangerous, than someone attempting to drive a car while drinking hot coffee out of demitasse cups? And no less, in a car without impervious locks! What kind of people do that sort of thing? And who knew that Civic-owners were just that sort of avant-garde risk-taker? It's mind-bending. Really. But you know, I thought, giving my own little Civic a bit more gas, maybe I fit right in.