Last month I decided to go out to one of the local casinos and play some video poker, which I like to do from time-to-time, knowing that it has some of the best odds when gambling. I parked my truck where I normally do, in a specific parking space far away from most of the other cars, mostly because it requires me to do a little walking to get into the casino, the goal being to at least get in some exercise before I throw away all of my money.
I played for a couple of hours, basically broke even, which is considered a good day for most gamblers, and then began the lengthy stroll back out to my truck. When I finally got there, however, much to my astonishment, it was nowhere to be found.
“Now how can that be”, I asked myself as I stood there in the empty parking space that was supposed to be housing my beloved truck. I looked all around, thinking that somehow I was having a senior moment and had just forgotten where I had parked the darn thing. But the more I thought about it, the more I was convinced that there was simply no way my truck could be anywhere other than where I had left it.
“Now what do I do?”, I asked myself, taking a few minutes to get my head around the fact that my truck had obviously been stolen. But the bigger question in my mind was why in the world would anyone want to steal it. It is 18-years old, has over 200,000 miles on it, has more than its fair share of scratches and dings, and I even stopped locking the doors ages ago, figuring that no one would want it other than me.
So, back into the casino I went to report a stolen vehicle. They, like me at first, thought I was just confused about where I had parked it and told me that before they could call the police, I had to drive all over their numerous and packed parking lots with one of their security people to make sure I wasn’t just a crazy old man. I assured them that I always parked in the very same spot, but they politely didn’t seem to believe a word of it. About an hour later, having scoured each and every one of the casino’s many parking lots, the police were finally called.
A very chatty officer explained to me that he was always getting called to casinos about stolen vehicles, and that along with shopping centers and airports, they were where most car thieves liked to do their thing.
“Why airports?” I asked with interest.
“Because if you leave your car there while you are off flying somewhere, not only can they leisurely steal your vehicle, but with the address information that people usually leave in their glove compartments on insurance papers, they can also drive over to your house and steal everything in it, knowing that you won’t be coming home any time soon to bother them.”
“So?” I asked the officer as he filled out all the information needed for me to report my truck as stolen to my insurance company, “do you think I will be getting my truck back?”
“It’ll probably show up sooner or later,” he answered matter-of-factly, “but who knows what kind of condition it will be in. A lot of cars are stolen just to chop them down to sell off the parts.”
So, with my police report in hand, I called my daughter for a ride home, called the insurance company, and hoped that my car would somehow magically reappear in the not-too-distant future.
Later that same night, at 2 am in the morning to be precise, the phone rang, and a female voice on the other line identified herself as a police employee and said that my truck had indeed been located.
“That’s great!” I exclaimed, still rubbing the sleep from my eyes. “What kind of shape is it in?”
“You will have to ask the tow yard people that,” she explained. “All I know is that the vehicle was still running when the woman was stopped and arrested.”
“A woman stole my truck?” I asked with surprise.
“That’s right,” came the reply, “and she apparently has a long record of doing such things.”
“Really?”
“Yes, she has been arrested numerous times in the past few years for grand thief auto and other related crimes. Do you have something to write with? I want to give you the phone number of the tow company where your vehicle is now located.”
“Sure,” I said, stumbling around in the dark trying to find a pen and something to write on.
“Are you ready?” she asked.
“Yes, go ahead.”
“Your vehicle is in a tow yard in Ely, Nevada, and the number there is….”
“My truck is where?” I interrupted; sure I had heard her wrong. But when she repeated it, my next question was, “Where in the world is Ely, Nevada.”
“I believe it’s in Eastern Nevada, not far away from Salt Lake City, Utah.”
“But I’m in West Sacramento, California,” I blurted out. “How can my truck be there?”
“I don’t know, sir. I’m just supposed to give you this phone number so you can arrange to go get your vehicle back. You will also have to pay the towing fees, and there’s also a separate charge for each day the car is in the tow yard.”
Anyway, to make a very long story short, after more than a week of going back and forth with my insurance company over who should pay to get my stolen truck back to me, it finally arrived in front of my house on top of a shiny new tow truck. The very nice man explained that he had had a pleasant trip once he got out of the snow and ice in the high mountains of Nevada, took a few photos to prove that he had actually delivered it to the right place, shook my hand goodbye, and I began the lengthy process of scrubbing my poor truck from top to bottom. It looked like a homeless person had been living in it and reeked of cigarette smoke, but it cleaned up nicely and acted like it was really happy to be home. And while I was doing all this, one of my neighbors, whom I had told the whole ordeal to days earlier, noticed me washing away and strolled over to see if there was anything he could do to help. When I assured him that everything seemed to be working fine, he said, “So, you’re finally going to be mobile again?”
“And none too soon, either” I said.
“I still can’t believe a woman stole your truck from a casino parking lot in broad daylight.”
“Me, either” I said
“Was that the same casino you were driving to when your radiator blew up a while back?”
“Yes,” I said, “and I even got a flat tire out there once. Who knows, with all the grief and expense my truck has been causing me lately, maybe the gods are trying to tell me that it’s finally time to bite the bullet, and go get myself a new car?”
“No, Daryl. The gods are trying to tell you to stay out of casinos!”