I Blame Detroit!
Losing my car and losing my mind....
Article by Kimberly Avery
Our part of the world is famous for its heat, hills, and humidity. On this particular day, I surmised that the heat and humidity called for a dip in the pool. As I floated in the cool water, I daydreamed about the plans for our son's birthday party later that evening. It would be hot as it always was this time of year, but hopefully the food, balloons, and ice cream would distract from the boiling heat.
After backstroking to the side of the pool, I checked my phone. Surprisingly, it was much later than I had imagined, and I still had a lot to prepare. I tried to phone my husband thinking maybe he could pick up the supplies for the party on his way home from work. No answer. He was probably in a meeting. Great! I thought. I was going to have to hurry. I threw on a cover-up, slipped on flip-flops, and tied my hair in a wet knot mimicking the "Messy Bun" hair tutorials I had watched the night before on Instagram. It's hot, and I'm in a hurry.
Pulling into the grocery parking lot, I realized I was not the only one who had begun my weekend with a grocery supply run. The parking lot was packed. I finally located an open space by not-so-stealthily stalking an exiting shopper. As he backed out I signaled with my erratic blinker warning other drivers this space has been captured by me. Pulling in, and exiting the car with fifty-year-old-cheetah-like speed. I ran in and around the store collecting party preparations.
After checking out, I grabbed my receipt, nodded to the young man who had bagged my groceries, and offered to push the cart to my car. Perfect! That might save some time, I thought as I jogged past him with my messy bun unraveling and now living up to its name. Before heading out the door, I checked my receipt to ensure I wasn't missing anything: ice cream, cake, wine, and balloons.
I was proud of myself. I was making good time. I sprinted in front of the cart as if to signal, "Let's get a move on." The sweltering heat hit us both as the supermarket doors sprung open. Fumbling in my purse for my keys, I saw a sea of hundreds of shiny cars like a mirage baking in the sun. Keys in hand, I picked up speed. The only things slowing me down now were my flip-flops, which were beginning to stick to the melting tar of the parking lot.
At this moment, I realized something that I now know completely changed the course of history, at least my history or at the very least my entire day. It dawned on me that I had no idea which car was mine. My husband worked for a car manufacturer, and the vehicles we drove as a family would often change when he brought home different cars. I racked my brain. I had not paid attention to the car I had hopped into back in my driveway; they all looked similar. This was worse than trying to find a needle in a haystack at least I know what a needle looks like. How embarrassing. Deciding not to worry just yet, I pushed the key fob. Silence. I tested it desperately and repeatedly. How was this possible? Perhaps the battery was dead. Glancing back at the bag boy I had left in the dust, I cut to the next aisle, squeezing between a camper and a four-by-four parked closely together.
“This way,” I yelled, knowing the cart would not fit through, and he would have to go all the way around, hopefully giving me time to locate my stupid car—no such luck.
Every car looked just as familiar as it did unfamiliar. Do all car manufacturers conspire together to insure all cars look just similar enough to appear camouflaged when parked together? After twenty minutes of chasing me through nine isles of the parking lot, the bag boy finally caught me with the cart. "Ma’am, did you lose your car? If you describe it to me, I'll help you find it." How do I possibly explain to this young man that yes, I drove here in a car and parked it in this parking lot but that at this moment, I have no idea of the make, model, or color of the car? I think I mumbled something like “black wheels” and “rectangle.” We were both melting in the sun. Looking down at my cart, I noticed my cake and ice cream were suffering too as they began to pool in the bottom of the cart. Shaking his head he looked at me with pity as if he now believed I had a lower I.Q. than the radishes he had bagged for me earlier.
Of course! I think. My husband! He knows which car I'm currently driving; how I see it, this is all his fault. He is responsible for constantly switching cars, causing what I can only describe at this point as an embarrassing calamity. I grab my phone and quickly call him again. No Answer.
It's been forty-five minutes of inspecting cars, and I'm sweating, exhausted, and limping with a broken flip-flop. I felt like no explanation at this point made me appear sane. The bag boy agreed. "Ma’am, have you been drinking?" He quietly asked. I was looking down at the bottles of Chardonnay in my cart.
"No, not yet," I said, desperately trying my husband's number again. "I'll be fine," I told him. I collapsed onto the curb to adjust my toasted, melted flip-flops and bun that now resembled a bird's nest.
It seemed the bag boy, too, had had enough. "I'm going back inside. I need to refuel with a drink," he announced as if he was part of a rotating parking lot pit crew for lost shoppers. The look on his face told me he instead would be finding his manager to inform him of the crazy-haired woman who appeared to be on drugs and believed she drove to the supermarket but could not confirm it with an actual car.
The parking lot temperature kept rising, and so did my temper. Why wouldn't my husband answer? Connecting to his voicemail for the tenth time, I left a message he couldn't ignore. "You need to call me back. There has been an incident. I'm sitting on the curb in the grocery store parking lot, slurping melted ice cream from a straw while drinking wine directly out of the bottle. A woman just handed me a ten-dollar bill and said, 'God Bless.' If you don't call me back soon, I'll throw off this cover-up, hitchhike to a corner in the red-light district, and embrace my new life. CALL ME BACK!"
After eating half the cake and drinking half the wine, I was losing both hope and my mind. I took out my receipt and scratched a few final words on it. If you are reading this, they’ve probably found my body in the grocery store parking lot. I tried to be a good mother and put on a great birthday party for my son, but instead, I died of heat, humidity, and humiliation because I could not identify my car, and my husband didn't call me back.
I untied the balloons from the grocery cart, attached the receipt, let them go, and watched them float away. I glanced down just in time to see an older gentleman in overalls crossing the parking lot toward me. He had a friendly smile and kind eyes. "Young lady, I’ve been waiting in the car for my wife, and I noticed you can't find your car." I nodded in absolute defeat. "I can help you," he said with calm assurance. For a moment, I felt new hope. He seemed so confident. Alas, staring at my shopping cart, I realized it contained only part of a cake, no ice cream, no wine, and no balloons. If he could help me find my car, I could at least drag myself home. "No problem," he said. "Now, what does your car look like?"
edited by Rebekah Crozier