The Elegance of Being Spectacularly Wrong

The Elegance of Being Spectacularly Wrong

“Damn it! I don’t need this right now. Of course this would happen today.” I popped the hood of my hand‑me‑down Chevy like I had a clue. I didn’t.

“What a complete cluster.”

Battery, hoses, wires, and a motor—probably—stared back at me.

“This can’t be happening.”

I’d ignored my aching molar for days; now it throbbed in sync with my rising pulse. I groaned, unhooked the hood prop‐up thingamajig, and let it slam—only to find my neighbor Donna already standing there.

“Aw, what’s wrong, hon? Dead again?”

“Yes! I have a dentist's appointment. I finally get lucky with an earlier opening—now this.”

“Well, just take mine,” she said, gesturing toward her new Pontiac parked in her drive.

She’d been over the moon when she brought home the sporty little Sunbird less than a week earlier.

“Right off the showroom floor,” she said, beaming. “Candy‑apple red with a killer stereo system.”

Take hers? Was she insane? I had never driven a brand‑new car before. What if I scratched it—or worse, wrecked it? I’d seen friendships fall apart over far less.

“That’s your baby; I’m not driving that into downtown Denver.” I was nervous enough about driving in Denver — I was from small‑town Kansas, where “traffic” meant getting stuck behind a combine — and the thought of leaving a brand‑new car unattended in a questionable part of town made my mouth throb even harder. “I’ll just reschedule.”

Donna knew exactly how much pain I was in — she’d sat with me the night before while I held an icepack to my face and sucked down the Tylenol and Ibu's. She was not taking no for an answer.

“The hell you will. You're keeping that appointment” She yanked the keys from her front pocket and shoved them into my hand. “You’re taking my car. I don’t need it until the kids get out of school. Just make sure to lock the doors and be back by three. It’s just a car—you’ll be fine.”

My desperation overtook my resolve, and I caved faster than I’d like to admit. So, with a grateful hug, I was off.

“Have fun! Enjoy it!” she yelled as I pulled away.

Have fun? Enjoy it? Yeah, right. I knew I’d be white‑knuckling the steering wheel for the entire drive over. But a couple of miles in, I loosened my death grip and felt the blood rush back into my knuckles. Shockingly, the drive felt… liberating. I had the windows down and the stereo thumping. It was the summer of 1989, and I couldn’t resist singing along to “Kokomo” by the Beach Boys while my wavy blonde hair whipped in the breeze.

I waited alone in the exam room as the novocaine took effect. Reclined in the dental chair, I felt a wave of gratitude for my friend. Just be back by three, Donna’s voice echoed in my mind. Back by three, no problem. It was only ten a.m.

Lock the doors.

Doors locked, check.

Just enjoy yourself.

Enjoy myself, check. I really had enjoyed myself—stereo cranked, windows down, wind in my hair.

Windows down… windows down… holy shit! I left the windows down!

I shot straight up just as the dentist entered.

“All right, let’s get that tooth fixed, shall we?”

Drilling ensued posthaste—of course, that wasn't the cause of my sudden-onset panic attack. Beads of sweat ran down my temples.

You idiot, how could you!

I mean—you had one job!

Technically, she never said to roll up the windows.

Nice try dummy!

"Ugh!"

I let out a moan and clenched the armrests with such force that the dentist stopped drilling. “Are you okay, Susan?”

No! I left my friend’s brand‑new, fancy sports car unlocked, and something terrible is going to happen, and she will never speak to me again, and I will have to move and change my name!

But all I could muster was— “Uh huh.”

“Well, you just raise your hand if you need me to stop.”

“Oh ay.”

I could feel the sweat soaking through my T‑shirt—first the pits, then my back.

“Are you sure you’re okay? You seem to be in pain.”

“Uh huh, no pah.”

“If you’re sure there’s no pain, I’ll continue.”

“Oh ay, I’n su.”

The procedure seemed to last forever, but in reality, I was drilled and filled in less than an hour. It was all I could do not to sprint out of the building. As I pushed through the double glass doors, my worst fear was realized.

“This can’t be real. This isn’t really happening!”

“Oh my God! Oh my God!” I shrieked—of course, it came out—“Oh buh Guh! Oh buh Guh!”

The front driver’s‑side door was open. The interior door panel was completely removed.

Two suspicious‑looking men crouched beside the car—parts and pieces littered across the pavement, mingled with an assortment of tools.

A full‑blown burglary kit, obviously.

“Wha’d you do to by cah!” I yelled. It wasn’t even my car—it was Donna’s. What had they done to my dear friend’s car?

The two crooks snapped their heads up, and “deer in the headlights” didn’t begin to cover it. They were terrified. All five‑foot‑one of me had obviously struck fear into this motley duo.

Run, I thought. Run like the cowards you are.

But they didn’t. They just stood there—confused, speechless, utterly dumbfounded.

Great. What now—is this where they attack? Is this where it all ends for me?

I quickly scanned the parking lot hoping for witnesses—for anybody—but I was alone. Alone with no weapons. I took a quick mental inventory of the cute pleather purse I’d just bought from Walmart. Nothing useful in there—just my wallet and a tube of ChapStick.

“A lot of good this’ll do me,” I muttered, clutching the flimsy straps like they were… what? A night stick? A baton? A very small yet fashionable secret weapon? “Stupid purse.”

I tried to prepare myself for what might come next. Would they both charge me? Would one of them pick up that giant wrench lying next to his foot?

My gaze flicked to the wrench, then back to their faces—still looking more afraid of me than I was of them. We all stood frozen, glancing around the empty lot like we were waiting for someone else to explain the situation.

Then it happened.

The scruffy man closest to the driver’s seat suddenly reached into the car.

I knew it! He’s going for a gun. Or a knife. This isn’t how I pictured my demise. Not like this. I always imagined going out heroically—saving a little kid from an out‑of‑control truck, tossing him to safety just before I get pancaked at the corner of Twelfth and Mulberry. Or rescuing an elderly nun from a burning church, shoving her into the waiting arms of a handsome fireman seconds before a flaming rafter crashes down on me. You know—something newsworthy and dignified.

But no. Apparently my death would be at the hands of these incompetent yet murderous car thieves.

“Well, I have this!” he barked.

My body jerked as if I’d been shot or stabbed. My vision blurred, then refocused on his… weapon? A piece of paper. I stumbled slightly, realizing I was still alive and very much unstabbed.

Say something. Be intimidating, I ordered myself.

“Oh yeah? Wha’s dat?” I demanded. “Yer las’ will ’n’ tessamen’, ’cuz yer gonna need i’!”

Ah, a good comeback. That never happens for me. I swiped away a rogue string of slobber as a smug, albeit lopsided smile crept in—and I went for my most menacing stare‑down. My face, however, had other plans. I tightened my grip on the faux‑leather weapon purse, ready for… absolutely nothing.

“It’s a work order!”

Does he really think he can manipulate me with the old I have a work order scam? How dare he.

“A work order, huh? A work order fa whau, bister?”

“It… it’s a work order to repair a driver’s‑side window!”

“Oh, is dat right?” I sneered, hands on hips. Whatever fear I’d felt evaporated, replaced by pure indignation. Who did they think they were dealing with? I’m not an idiot. I’m not about to let these two wannabe‑gangster car thieves get away with this.

As their bewilderment deepened, I began to feel emboldened.

“Well, dere was nuddin’ wrong wid my window, su! It’s a brand‑new cuh!”

Ha! Take that! Man, I’m on a roll.

The two imbeciles looked at each other, then at the car, then at me.

“Morons,” I thought.

I glanced at the once beautiful sports car—now defiled. Odd, though… I didn’t remember seeing the pine‑tree air freshener dangling from the rear‑view mirror on my drive over.

“Ma’am, the work order is to repair the window on a 1985 Toyota Corolla.”

“Yeah! Well…”

Nothing. My words evaporated. I felt faint as my throat tightened, and I stared at the car again. The dirt was suddenly obvious. So were the dented bumper and the crumpled side panel.

Toyota. Oh my God—he said Toyota.

“Ma’am? It is supposed to be the driver’s‑side window, correct?”

My cheeks burned. I felt sick as my hands left my hips to clutch my stomach.

“Uhhh… ummm…” I looked around— floundering, scrambling for dignity—honestly, where was that careening truck when I needed it?

Then I saw it. Parked three slots to the left—not the truck. Donna’s beautiful red Sunbird, pristine and glistening in the Colorado sun.

“Ma’am? Should we stop?”

Step to the left, step to the left.

“Hello? Hey, lady!”

Just keep walking. Almost there. Don’t look back.

Now, just steps from the Sunbird, I hollered over my shoulder, “Oh—nebba bind! Not by cah!”

I slid into the driver’s seat, their stares slicing into me. I knew exactly what they were thinking:

Moron. Imbecile.

I pulled away in utter shame. The hour‑long drive home did nothing to quell the nauseating horror of that day. I parked that beautiful, new, cursed Pontiac in my neighbor’s driveway—thankful she wasn’t home to witness my disgrace—and vowed never to speak of the awfulness of that morning.

And yet, every now and then, the memory circles back, just to keep me humble.