The Prodigal Camry

I stole my own car!

by Sung-Ji Schmidt

Alyssa Grenning

My husband, Greg, calls me from his cell phone: "Are you sure you parked the car in front of the house?"

"Yes. I'm positive." I remember thinking how lucky it was to find a parking spot at such a late hour. And right in front of the house, too. Why?

"Well, I'm staring at it right now." Greg's out walking the dog and had spied the car across the street, just a few blocks from my house.

My car. The one that had been stolen only two days ago.

Back then, I had thanked the parking gods for the recently vacated spot on my congested street in Fairmount. And it was so conveniently located that I could stare down at it from the bedroom window if I felt so inclined. The next morning I walked out of the house and found someone else's car in the spot. I blinked. Had I dreamt parking the car? Who dreams about parking her car? I clutched my keys and grimly walked up and down the block a few times.

No, I was certain. My car had been stolen.

On some level, I had expected this. The 1991 Toyota Camry is always on the top 10 most frequently stolen cars list. Over the last decade, I had brazenly parked it in an urban area. While Fairmount is certainly no Compton in terms of car theft, any area of Philadelphia has its share of car thieves. I figured by now, my little Camry was probably sitting on some chop block, stripped of its precious parts, reduced to scrap metal. Resigned, I called in to work to tell them I would be a little late.

And now, apparently, after a little joyride, my car was back in the neighborhood. Like an errant puppy. The Prodigal Camry. Greg peered into the car to see that the seats had been moved way back, nearly reclining. And there were discarded beer cans and candy wrappers in the back. The ashtray was open and overflowing with cigar butts. This is not how I usually keep my car. Someone had taken my little puppy, messed it up a bit and then had the decency to bring him home. Weird. Not having any keys on him, Greg walked home with the dog and by the time he returned, the car had once again disappeared. Surely it was now gone for good. Who would be stupid enough to drive the car in the 'hood from which it had been stolen?

The next morning we decided to give in and buy a new car. We got about two blocks in our rental, when I spotted the Camry. There it was, sitting in front of McKenna's Pub. We pulled over and thought about our options. I suggested setting up a sting operation. We would park a few feet behind the car and watch it, ready to pounce when the miscreants showed up. Citizens' arrest! I would scream while jumping out from the shadows.

Greg made his "I don't think so" face. "You see how far back the seats are? My guess is that these are tall people. Probably bigger than us. Let's not find out." In the end, Greg watched the car while I ran back to the house to get a set of keys. At the very least, I was going to steal back my car from these mysteriously ballsy low-life thieves. In all likelihood, they were my neighbors. Untidy, law-breaking neighbors, but neighbors nonetheless. I was pissed.

The police officer was amused but sympathetic. "It's an old car. With this model, it's pretty easy to jimmy the lock, pop out the ignition and use a screwdriver to start the car. Probably some kids." The insurance agent on the phone just laughed. She'd never heard of somebody stealing back their own car. After she assured us that our coverage was reinstated, we drove it to a used-car dealer and traded it in.

"Goodbye, car. Nice knowing you, but I need a car that's going to stay put," I whispered fondly.

Like most people, I had grown attached to my car. It was my first car and had served me well for a good decade. And now it was gone — again. In fact, it had gone three times in three days. At least the last time was on my terms.

A few weeks later, Greg and I were zipping around in our new used car. This newer model had a built-in security system. The neighborhood hooligan would have his hands full this time.

"Stop the car!" I said, pointing wildly out the window. "There it is!"

"What are you talking about?" Greg asked.

"There! It's the Toyota! It's the car!" Washed and simonized, but still with its recognizable collection of parking stickers in the back window. Refurbished, it now belonged to someone else. That was the last time I saw it, so I don't think it belongs to anyone in our neighborhood. Which is a good thing, because someone in my 'hood has a penchant for '91 Camrys.

(editorial@citypaper.net)