This is fact, not fiction

No one can ever tell me that I refuse to step out of the box and try new things. Because I do. It is not my fault that the trying of the new things ends poorly and I never want to do said new things again.

On Sunday afternoon, my friend Amber and I decided to try out a different Church. This Church is located in DC and therefore, we thought it best to carpool. Since her condo is closer to the interstate, we agreed that I would drive over, park at her place, and then hitch a ride downtown in her vehicle. The only problem with this idea was that it meant I would need to get there early to call her downstairs to let me in the building in order to go inside to fill out a form for a visitor's parking pass then go back out to my car to put it in the dash before I parked. Although I have done this numerous times, it is still a big pain. While I was on the phone with Amber making the plans, I remembered that I saved my visitor's pass from the last time I was over. There are always empty spaces in visitor parking and the date on the pass is so small that I could not imagine someone actually getting close enough to my car to read it, especially when there was an abundance of empty parking places, most of which were much closer to the building than the one in which I parked. (Can you sense the foreshadowing here?) Amber agreed that it was a good idea to use the old one as it would save us from unnecessary hassle.

Fast forward nearly 5 hours (yes, FIVE hours...don't even get me started on this...just know that it involves a long ice cream line and getting kicked out of California Tortilla). Amber and I are pulling into her condo and we see a car that is not mine in a parking spot close to where I had been parked. Not to worry, my car must be hidden on the other side of that car. Okay, so it's not hidden behind a car that is a good two feet shorter than it. At this point, I begin hyperventilating, "Where is my car? Did they tow it? Did someone steal it? Why would someone steal my car? Oh dear Lord, THEY TOWED MY CAR! How could they tow my car? There are like 12 empty parking spaces? Why would they tow my car? THEY FREAKING TOWED MY CAR!" In complete shock, Amber and I pull up to the building and begin trying to come up with a good story for having parked in visitor parking with an out-of-date visitor's pass. We come up with nothing and head inside to face our fate. The lady at the front desk shakes her head as she looks down to write a phone number on a post-it while muttering something about people not taking the towing seriously and a hundred and twenty dollars. She gives the post-it to Amber and we head back out to the car. Still in shock, I hand my phone to Amber and ask her to make the call.

Luckily, the tow yard is located between Amber's condo and my apartment. They tell us that they are on a side street between Eisenhower Avenue and 495. Never in my time in this area have I noticed a side street between Eisenhower and 495. You know why? Because it's the darkest street in the existence of man! Here we are, two young women driving down the darkest street in the history of man. We drive about a half mile down the road and we see a sign for the tow yard. As we pull over to the side of the road (there is no parking lot except behind the gate that says "Beware of Dog" where all the towed, impounded, and junked cars are located), we see approximately 7 cats scurry away at the sight of the headlights. Amber quietly says, "I guess we are supposed to go in that trailer back there."

We cautiously exit the vehicle and walk towards the trailer. It looks deserted as there is a huge plywood plank over the window and there is not a door in sight. The plank has graffiti all over it and signs that say, "Cash only. NO CHECKS." We look at each other, "I have $7. What about you?" "I have $7 too." Knowing full well that $14 is not getting us a car back, we walk up the makeshift staircase. There is a hole in the plywood about 8 inches in diameter. After 2 solid minutes, a man rolls his chair over to the hole. Amber, the saint that she is, does the talking (because I would have gone all Naomi Campbell launching my cell phone through the hole at the guy's head had it been my job to talk). "License." I take my license out and pass it through the hole. A few minutes later, a carbon sheet and pen emerge from the window and I hear a faint, "Sign this." I sign it and pass it back through noticing that the top says "$110." "Do I need cash? Because I don't have any." "We take debit cards." Oh goody, I get to pass my debit card through a hole in a plywood graffitied plank covering a window to a trailer on the darkest street in the history of man. I pass my debit card through the hole. A minute later a portable debit card machine emerges asking me to enter my pin number. I type it in and think, "Great. Not only am I going to get murdered when I walk through the dark gate with all the cats looking for my car, but now my identity is going to be stolen and my bank account cleared out because the man behind the plank is going to retrieve my pin number from this machine."

A few minutes later Amber and I walk through the dark gate looking for my car as all the cats with their beady eyes stare at us. We finally find it amongst all the towed, impounded, and junked cars in the back corner, even darker and further away from the darkest street in the existence of man.