Baby, You Can’t Drive My Car…

Last week my car app let me know my vehicle was on the move.

Thanks for the head’s up, but none of us were driving our recently purchased Volvo.

I texted our NYC parking garage and received nothing in return which is not unexpected so I quickly headed over to find out what was up.

Ticket in hand I waited 20 minutes and the manager finally returned to inform me that my new car was missing in action.

Are you kidding me…no keys, no car, no clue.

Time to call in the cops.

New York’s finest, five strong, made a dramatic entrance in literally five minutes.

Let me tell you that Big Brother can find your car anywhere.

The cops knew that at 8:53pm Saturday night my car crossed the Manhattan Bridge…no secrets, but no evidence of the assumed recent joyride.

By the way, one of the officers heavily harassed me about supposedly lying about owning two cars. He was relentless until the Sargent told him to back off.

It gave me a glimpse into how one cop can really misread things.

The image of my old blue Volvo station wagon popped up on their monitoring site and was earmarked September 29th the day of the supposed car theft, but he failed to read the year which was 2020.

The police officer with the ridiculously long lashes asked me if I was at the correct garage…I assume many victims are confused.

But do I look senile?!…after parking in the same lot for 12 years I was positive that I was in the right place.

I then suggested that the men in blue walk the garage since my license plate was not showing up online and furthermore, the new company that took over from Icon appeared dumber than Gary Sanchez and Evan Engram combined.

I was told to stand down and not join the search party.

30 minutes later they found the car with the keys in it parked in a different spot than listed on my parking ticket.

To further complicate the situation it turns out that the garage never changed the info on our profile so our old car was listed and not the new make, model and license plate number of the new SUV.

So two and one half hours later with the assist of five of New York’s finest my new car was discovered.

Another picture perfect example of not being able to fix stupid.

At least the car was safe and sound, but I want those 150 minutes mostly spent underground, stressed, in a tight fitting mask with an aggressive police officer in my face and my patience running thin, back.

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