The year was 1975.  My favorite car for years had been the Pontiac Gran Prix and I finally had one.  White with a black top, long and sleek and powerful.  Three hundred plus horse power.  I managed to get my first speeding ticket (and the second and third) with my high powered beauty.

If you asked my mechanic however, he would shudder at the very mention of the car.  It did have a history of problems ... to the point where I would call Dennis and the first thing he would say is "Now what?"  In spite of that, I loved the car.

Working for a now defunct consumer lending company, I had just been transferred to the downtown Redwood City office as Assistant Manager.  As usual, parking in downtown was at a premium and I finally managed to find a space down the street and around the corner from the office.

At noon, I wasted no time grabbing my purse, fumbling for my keys and heading for the door.

Except I couldn't find my keys. Back at my desk, I emptied my purse. I rummaged through drawers.  I checked all of the other desks. I tore apart the front counter. Checked the bathroom. Upstairs. Under desks.  Employees pockets.

No keys.  Okay, I must have left them in my car.

And when I finally went outside and walked down the street and around the corner, not only did I not have my keys, I no longer had my car.

Gone. Stolen. Kaput. Bye-bye.

My beloved 1968 Gran Prix was in the hands of strangers!  My boyfriend picked me up after work and took me out to dinner, which turned out to be a celebratory dinner with my mechanic and several other people who were familiar with the car's history.

Two weeks later, I received a call from the Palo Alto police department.  My car had been found, though not quite in the original shape it had been in when it was taken.  The transmission was destroyed; two tires were flat; and one rim was damaged beyond repair. To top it off, and what really irritated me the most, was that my white linen blazer had been used as a rag for greasy hands!

Since this was in the days of no insurance required, and I was one of those who believed I would never need it anyway, I had no insurance.  Not only was the cost of repairs out of my pocket, I had to pay the towing company for towing the car and the storage fees. Which it turned out was for three days because that's how long it took the police department to contact me.

In spite of Dennis' grumblings, he did fix the transmission for me.  But I still think he had something to do with the police department taking their time to contact me.  I'm pretty sure he tried to convince them to let the car stay there forever but they finally got him to hand over the paperwork. 

See, not only was he my mechanic, he was also a Palo Alto police officer.