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Grand Theft Auto

November 16, 2011

Though written in a bit of a rush, I felt the need to post this as a story. It actually happened to me the other day and if you don’t know me, this situation about sums up who I am. If you do know me, your first reaction is probably the same as everyone else I have told the story to: “Only you would do that.”

I wrote this from the point of view of a third person narrator, an exercise I have been doing lately in relation to my own life. I think it’s good practice for a couple reasons. I won’t explain them at this juncture.


“I’ll see you later,” Brendon says as he swung the lanyard connecting his roommates keys to his hand. “The gang,” as they called themselves, were going to a coffee shop just down the street to play some Scrabble, but Brendon, against every internal inclination, was going home to do homework.

He walked across the street to where the car was parked in front of The Buckhorn Bar. Red. Jordan’s car is red.

He opened the door to the red car without having to use the remote control unlock button and sat down. The seat seemed closer to the steering wheel than fit Brendon’s comfort, but he left it where it was, not to disturb what wasn’t his.

He turned the key and started the car.

He backed out and started down the road.

“I don’t remember Jordan having a steering wheel cover,” he thought to himself.

He turned on the 3rd street in the direction of Safeway where he planned on buying supplies for the chili he was to make later that night.

“Why does Jordan’s car smell like cigarette butts?” he thought before turning the car into the parking lot.

He got back into the car, setting the bag of groceries on the passenger’s seat.

“Seriously,” he thought. “Why does Jordan’s car smell like cigarette butts?”

He started down the road toward their house and flipped down the visor to protect his eyes from the sun. There was a fanny pack-like bag on the visor.

“I don’t remember Jordan’s car having that,” he thought. He then looked at the square little piece of paper hanging out of one of the pockets.

“Who the hell is John Hellingham?” he said. “Shit.”

Quickening his pace, he drove the now more alien-feeling car to the Buckhorn and parked it in a spot by where he found it. A man walked up to him.

“Hey, that’s my car, man,” the man said.

“Sorry about that,” Brendon said sheepishly. “I thought it was my roommate’s.”

“That’s alright, man,” the man said. “It’s happened to me before.”

The man then walked away, very pleased to have his car back in sight, very pleased to walking back into the bar. Brendon walks back to Jordan’s actual car. Another man walked out the door to the Buckhorn and motions to Brendon to come to him. Brendon walks toward him, bag of groceries in hand.

“Are you the guy that stole the car?” the big, scary looking older man said in a bear-like voice and holding his giant hand out.

“Yeah,” Brendon said. “That would be me.” Brendon shook his hand. The big, scary looking man did not let go and yelled to the other man, who was walking toward the door.

“Don’t worry,” the big, scary looking man said with a rough laugh. “I have him in handcuffs.”

“Shit,” Brendon thought.

“Sorry man, I called the cops before you got here,” the other man said. “I didn’t know where my car was.”

“I understand,” Brendon said. “I suppose anyone would do the same.”

“So what happened,” the big, scary looking man said.

Brendon explained to him how he thought it was his roommates car and how the key worked like it was.

“Too bad it wasn’t a Mercedes,” the big, scary man joked.

A cop walked up. ”So, we have everything resolved here?” he said.

“Yeah,” Brendon said , again having to explain what happened.

The cop, trying not to laugh too hard asked for Brendon’s and the other man’s I.D. and had someone through his walky talky check them.

“So you thought this was your buddy’s car, realized that it wasn’t halfway home, and then turned around and brought it back?” the cop checked to clarify the ridiculousness of the situation.

“Yep,” Brendon said.

“Alright, you can go,” the cop said.

As he drove home in what was actually Jordan’s car, Brendon could not help but laugh out of the awkwardness and ridiculousness of the events that had just taken place.

“I really need to be more observant,” he thought.

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