Not Today

If I’m going to talk about my solo living in Brooklyn, then I have to tell you the story of when I stole my car back.

You read that correctly. Read it ten times if you must.

It was the week before my birthday when my friend asked to take me out to dinner. Reservations at 7:00, so I started heading out at 6:30. I should’ve known something was wrong the moment I went to grab my keys and saw my car key was broken—I only had the top portion, none of the actual key.

I grabbed my spare, thought nothing of it, and ran down the stairs (skipping the usually long-awaited elevator) to get to my car. You can take the girl out of Long Island, but you can’t take Long Island out of the girl. I always need my car.

And on this particular day, I was especially glad to have Stormiesha (a.k.a. Stormi), because what would’ve been an hour-long bus ride was about to be a 30-minute drive.

So of course, I’m taking Stormi.

I got to the spot where I last remembered seeing my car—two days before, on my way to the office—and stopped short.

No car.

Now, with alternate street parking, leaving your car for the correct number of days is imperative. But sometimes… I misplaced her. She could’ve been on Eastern Parkway and Troy, or Eastern Parkway and Schenectady. The days blur together.

“Maybe I’m buggin’,” I muttered.

I speed-walked up and down Eastern Parkway, pressing my panic button, listening—hoping—for the sound of my alarm.

Nothing.

I backtracked every parking spot I remembered from that week.

Stormi wasn’t in any of them.

I don’t know exactly when it settled in that my car was stolen, but by the time my dinner reservation came and went, I called my friend.

“I can’t make it,” I told her. “I don’t know where my car is.”

She didn’t hesitate. She Ubered from Williamsburg straight to my apartment—fifty dollars later, she was at my door. That’s real friendship.

She sat with me while I made the calls: the police, my dad, my mom, my insurance.

Four phone calls that led me to one very sobering realization: I am an adult, this is my car, and no one is coming to save me.

They offered sympathy and prayers.I had tears and confusion.

So I started digging.

I found an article about a man with a similar situation who was able to activate his car’s tracking system after it went missing—for a fee, of course. This is America.

I don’t think I’ve ever dialed a number faster.

Honda picked up within minutes, and $100 later, my tracking system was activated. The support rep warned me it could take up to 12 hours to locate the car.

I heard her.I just didn’t listen.

With no other options—and still no police—we did what anyone spiraling would do: we walked to the liquor store, bought a bottle of wine each, ordered food, and tried to piece together how this even happened.

That’s when it hit me.

The night before, I had gone on a date with a guy I met through a friend. I went back to his place to watch a comedy special. Around 2 AM, I used his bathroom before he called me an Uber from his phone.

Could he have taken my key while I was in the bathroom? Calling the Uber meant he had my address.

If that was true… that officially made it the worst date I had ever been on.

The only other possibility? I dropped and broke my key while fumbling with my tiny bag at my front door.

But the way the key was broken—it wasn’t random. It was too clean. Too intentional.

We landed on one conclusion: it was him.

At 11 PM—six hours later—the police finally showed up, and I filed a report.

Ah. The good ol’ NYPD.

They told me they could really only help if my car hit a toll or crossed a bridge.

Helpful.

I went back upstairs, just as defeated as before, and collapsed onto my couch. Somewhere between sips of my $15 wine, I refreshed the tracking app over and over and over again.

Then—boom.

A location.

Patchen Ave.2 AM.

My heart dropped.

I was relieved—but also terrified.

How did it get there?Who had it?What was I walking into?

It was summer. For all I knew, there could be a group of people posted up around my car, celebrating their new ride.

But one thing was clear:

I was getting my car back. Immediately.

My friend—bless her—leans flight in any crisis. I, however, was ready to fight.

We called an Uber. We called the police to meet us there.

And then we packed two kitchen knives into our mini purses.

Our hearts were racing. We were tipsy. But we were on our way.

The Uber driver listened to the whole story, wide-eyed, and refused to just drop us off and leave. He stayed until the police arrived.

Our temporary guardian angel.

And then—I saw her.

Stormi.

Sitting there like nothing ever happened. Perfectly parallel parked. Mirrors tucked in, like even the thief knew she deserved respect.

They took my Gucci coin purse—filled with parking meter change—my Bala weights (a gift for my friend), and all my chargers.

What bums.

She probably would’ve ended up in a chop shop eventually, sold for parts.

But not tonight.

Not a scratch on her.

I turned the key.

The dashboard lit up like Christmas.

I didn’t know if she’d drive—but one way or another, she was coming home. Tow truck or not.

Eventually, the cops strolled up—late, again—and had me follow them a block over to finish the report.

Our Uber driver-turned-protector bid us goodnight.

And just like that, the three of us—me, my friend, and Stormi—headed back to Eastern Parkway.

The aftermath? That’s another story.

A summer without my car.Arguing with mechanics.Being right the whole time.

But for now, I’ll leave it here:

They took my car.