Grand Theft Auto – A wrong turn along the way

My parents raised me right, but I made a wrong turn along the way

I’m not going to lie. I’m a pretty good match for many of the stereotypes of the absent-minded, bumbling husband.

I can hardly unitask, let alone multitask. 

If you ask me to get something from another room, there’s a fair chance that somewhere in my meandering between the bedroom and the living room, my eye will be drawn to something else and I’ll lose track entirely of my original mission.

If you send me to the grocery store without a list, you’re asking for trouble. If you send me with a list, it’s even odds that I’ll get to the store, only to realize that the list is still sitting at home on the table.

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Here we sit, having just concluded the season of repentance. Even with all of the Vidui confessions, there’s one more item about which I need to come clean. 

It started innocently enough, with a trip to the supermarket. I thought I had enough time to do a little shopping before picking up Chana from work. That was probably a bit of wishful thinking on my part. Deciding to get the car washed while I shopped upgraded that wishful thinking to borderline delusion.

It was easy enough to rationalize that I had time for both. One of the underappreciated strokes of genius in Israeli society is its penchant for locating car washes in mall parking lots. What better way to make the most of your time than to drop your car off, do your shopping, and place your booty in the boot of the car (for those of you in the U.S., that’s the trunk)? As an added bonus, you don’t have to search for parking!

And so, one day several months ago, I did exactly that, entrusting my car to the attendant, leaving the ignition on and the key fob resting in the cup holder. With less than an hour to shop, I searched for a cart, descended to the supermarket, and walked into… bedlam.

I don’t remember if it was Erev Pesach, but it sure looked like it. The aisles were choked with shoppers, and the checkout lines could hardly be distinguished from the throngs filling every nook and cranny of the store. My borderline delusion now blossoming into full-blown fantasy, I forged ahead. I limited myself to a few items and headed for the checkout.

By this time, I had about thirty minutes until I needed to be at Chana’s work, which was about seven minutes away. I stood on line. And waited. And waited.

And waited. 

Twenty-five minutes later, I had hardly budged. It was time to come back to earth and admit defeat. I abandoned my shopping excursion and ran for the elevator back to the car.

I quickly paid for the wash, jumped in the car, and headed for the pickup. Along the way, I noticed with chagrin that the car was not as clean as it should have been. Some windows seemed cleaner than others. The vacuuming was perfunctory at best. This place usually does an excellent job, so I was surprised and disappointed. Mostly, though, I was laser-focused on getting to Chana as quickly as possible, so I wouldn’t leave her waiting after a typically hectic day at work. Everything else could wait. 

I pulled up in front of her office, and she popped right into the passenger’s seat. 

“You do realize this isn’t our car?” she asked.

“You didn’t notice that the roof color is different than ours? And we don’t have a steering wheel cover?”

Oops. I had inadvertently jacked some wheels, as we like to say in the hood. 

Quickly, we returned to the scene of the crime, all the while listening for approaching sirens and scanning the horizon for SWAT teams. Chana promised to visit me often in prison. I wondered if they’d allow her to bring me her legendary challah. 

Fortunately, the car wash personnel had not even realized the car was gone, while the car’s rightful titleholders were probably still engulfed in the market maelstrom three floors below. No charges would be filed.

We quickly traded the unwashed getaway car for our own sparkling model and made our escape. 

Thus ended my notorious caper—and my brief but eventful career as an auto thief. The wanted posters came down. I was once again allowed an Aliya in my shul. I returned to my usual role as your typical bumbling husband. All is once again right with the world.

At least until the next time I get the car washed.