Grand Theft Auto

The following story is one that is sharp in my memory from my childhood. It is a story that I could use to define the way I was raised, and the way my father raised me, in particular.

When I was 9 years old, my dad and I went to a sporting event and had our car towed.........

Dad and I broke into the car lot, and took it back.

Now, before you typecast my father as a villain, or call the police, let me explain:

Upon discovering our missing vehicle we contacted the car-towing company, where a wayward employee told my father to meet him after hours to exchange the car for a very large cash sum. My father, being business savvy and nothing close to naive, knew he was being swindled. It was late, and we had no way back to our Salt Lake Suburb, which was 30 miles away. 
Either Dad assisted the unruly man in making some extra change through the back door, or he could claim the car himself...you already know the outcome.

Dad and I made our way to the lot in the middle of the night where we climbed the fence, hotwired the car, unchained the gate, and drove off.
Well, Daddy did all that, but I was still there.

Days later the towing company called saying they had our car and we could pick it up for a small fee. According to them, the car had been taken from a close location, and the payment to reclaim it was minor.
Dad responded into the telephone calmly:
"That's impossible. You can't have my car. It's sitting in my driveway."
"Oh, right. That's strange. Very sorry sir. There must have been some mistake."
Daddy hung up the phone and it was never addressed again.

This is an event in my life I have only learned to really appreciate with age.
I mean, here I am, nine years old, assisting my father in grand theft auto. 
I didn't grasp the magnitude of the situation at the time, and the recap you're about to read is from that childlike perspective. I'm sure if my Dad retold it, it would be a much different version. A version filled with a little more anger, a little more fear, and maybe even a little remorse. At nine years old, I simply thought it was fun.

Now  that I am older, I realize that car theft isn't something normal people do as a pastime. I also understand that not every instance of bullying requires such drastic action, and, unlawful action at that. But, as my father's daughter I can testify of my Dad's honest, trustworthy nature, and this one time scenario simply embodies the concepts he was always trying to teach me, just usually in a more diluted way.
 The morals of this story are parallel to everything I've ever learned from him:

Family first
If you're going to do it, do it right
Stand up for yourself
and, Sometimes it's okay to bend the rules

Thanks Dad, for being the kind of parent that not only teaches me lessons, but lets me live them.
This one's for you:


I am sitting in the passenger's seat of our 1999 ford ranger. I am small enough that my feet dangle from the bench seat without touching the floor. A Billy Joel hit is playing on the radio.
 Daddy is concentrating as he drives down the interstate, eyes fixated on the lane in front of him while his lips move in unison with the chorus. 
"Every bodies talkin' bout the new sound funny bit its still rock n roll to me..," we sing.
It is another winter's night where the cold creeps up on the sides of  the windows.  Frosty patterns warn of the below freezing temperature. Daddy and I are on our way to the Utah Jazz Basketball game.
 The game is my Christmas present to him, which I think is quite clever. I enjoy the team as much as he, and I gave him two tickets with the intuition he'd have me as his guest.
 ***
 Were approaching the arena now.
Dad says,"Dunno if were gonna find parking sis." 
  Rows of cars line the streets and men in orange vests patrol the nearby lots, holding cardboard signs that read '$10 to enter'.
A sandwich shop sits kiddy corner to the venue. Lit in yellow fluorescent lights, the familiar chain is hard to miss.
We pull into the shop's parking lot and make our home in a stall near the entrance.
"All non-patrons will be toed," screams a large white sign facing our windshield.
"That's exactly why were going to have a sandwich," Dad says while smiling and cutting the engine.
***
We enter the basketball arena clutching two plastic bags that contain our ham and cheese dinner. Our seats are near the back, but nothing to worry.
"We'll move closer to the action," Dad tells me between plays, "We can go at the end of the quarter. It should be fine,"
***
I am now sitting next to daddy in row 7. I am closer than I have ever been to the court, and Karl Malone seems more like an actual sports heroine, than an actor who plays a basketball player on channel 13. Daddy and I cheer loudly, and laugh at the mascot during halftime while eating snow cones and cotton candy.
***
The jazz win the game, which I have credited to the luck of our presence. Were exiting with the rest of the excited crowd. I have my dad's arm in hand and half of a salty pretzel.
 My elation is doused  as we walk across the street to our car, which is no longer parked in its stall.
"What do we do now, dad?", I ask. This is more than an inquiry than a vocalization of worry. I know dad will take care of it.
***
At  the hotel next door dad asks the man behind the counter to use the telephone.
"You mean to say you have my car....you towed it?!" dad growls, agitated.
"...and you want how much money, and to meet you when??" He yells
then puts down the phone.
His voice reminds me of the time I tricked my little brother into giving me his $6 allowance... Daddy found out.
 ***
"C'mon Sis", Daddy says holding my hand as we walk down an unpaved road, neither of us dressed for adventure. Cotton clouds float from our mouths as we breathe out the frigid air.
I see an overpass ahead, where a homeless man warms his fingers over a lit up trash bin. I feel dads grip on my hand tighten.
***
25 minutes have passed and my fingers feel like otter pops. We finally come to a tall chain-link fence. Its presence seems foreboding, and I know it's not the same kind of fence used to keep dogs in the  yards at our subdivision, well, not golden retrievers, or beagles, anyway. 
Daddy's face is pressed up against the cold metal as he inspects what's inside.
"Looks clear, I'm going to lift you over sis"
***
I am now standing on top of what I think was Henry Fords first vehicle. The once sky blue exterior is mostly red from rain and oxidation. The place is a landfull, riddled with car after car which are mostly broken down, and corroded with rust and missing tires. The parts and tin somehow all fit together, in a puzzle like fashion, leaving little room for the pavement below. Dad jumps on the roof of one vehicle to the next, a little bit like the chimney sweep in 'Mary Poppins', searching for our little white truck.
***
Finally Daddy is waving his arms in victory. He has spotted our needle in the haystack. And, there's bonus, the old toe truck by the Mercedes has a fully stocked tool it. 
I feel like tom sawyer or someone from a made for TV movie. Dad is a superhero! Yeah, that's right! Daddy is invincible and I am his sidekick! He is john wayne and I am Walter brennan. he is Indiana and i am Short Round... he is batman and I am robin...he is.. well, you get the picture.
***
I'm a whiny sidekick now, so consequentially I am sitting inside the little truck, and watching as daddy uses pliers to twist the chain-link free from its grip on a metal pole. The car has been hot wired and the heat is turned to a temperature that would thaw any Eskimo.
Daddy taps his fingers on the window and I roll it down. The chill creeps in and dad's nose is red from the cold.
"alright sis, open the door and scoot over. were gonna drive 'er through."
Dad puts the car in gear and although the chain link is off, the bare bones of the fence still remain. The truck is too wide.
"DagNabbit",
I'm old enough to know he might prefer another word besides dagnabbit, but his sidekick has small ears.
Daddy reverses, opens the car door and steps out, pushing the rear-view mirrors flat against the cars sides.
He gets back in and shifts into first gear. We pull through, with only centimeters to spare.
We park just outside the front gate, and I wait a little longer while daddy stretches the chain link back over the fence, and fastens the wires. "2:00am" glows the dashboard clock. My eyes feel heavy from the use of adrenaline and the time.
***
Dad finally gets back in the truck and lets me forgo my lap-belt and lay across the seat with my head on his knees. The corners of my mouth are upturned into a smile while I close my eyes. My imagination is running wild with thoughts of a crime-fighting, father-daughter dynamic duo.


As I drift off I keep entertaining one thought: "Next year, I am buying Dad season tickets."

Lazy but Lovely

December 12th:

It's 2am and I am riding the M train toward herald square. There is a lone man sitting across from me. His head rests against the map of New York City, and he has a ten gallon hat tipped over one eye while the other is closed.
Brown boots laden with rusty spurs meet the floor below him. He is reminiscent of an old western cinema, only, removed from the shades of black and white and placed amidst the speeding color of the city.
He probably looks unusual walking down 7th avenue or Broadway.  Passerby's might assume he has a lead role in Oklahoma, but, I can see from his dirty nap sack that fame and fortune have only eluded him.
There is something poetic about his presence in the car.
He's a New York City cowboy, holding onto a slower way of life in a place with the quickest draw.
The subway acts as his trusty steed as he wanders from Brooklyn to Queens.
 
December 16th 2010:

 Its my Christmas gift exchange among friends. Danielle, Jewlie, Ashley and I are meeting at Olive Garden at 7pm. Sometimes in New York city you willingly dine at places like Olive Garden and Apple Bees instead of the posch french restaurant around the corner. None of us are from this city, so chain restaurants remind us of the simplicity of our former suburban lives.
That,...and olive garden's bread-sticks might be an edible gift from the gods.

I still haven't bought a single present and it is four o clock. Two unfinished paintings sit on the kitchen table,  my procrastination allowing just a few brush strokes on what could have been something thoughtful. I know Michelangelo took four years to paint the ceiling of the sistine chapel, but I'm moving at a much slower rate on a 12x12 canvas. I opt for a gift card and high tail to max brenners to pick one up last minute.

At the restaurant our waiter offers us a free sample of wine.
"No thanks," says Danielle.
"You know what, Andrew, Fill me Up," I say like he's an old friend. His silver name tag caught my eye.
Before long we are all enjoying full glasses and discussing relationships, dieting, and lingerie, and how they all have one thing in common...they generally malfunction.

My roommates gifts are nice and make me laugh. Jewlie has given me a pretty matchbox  to help enable my bad habit and a travel diary. Ashley gave me a novel entitled, "What french women know about love sex and life"
"It was just sitting there on the shelf screaming your name," She says while I lift it from the bag,
"Merci beaucoup, Ash."

We walk home through Madison square park, admiring the sparkling christmas tree and twinkle lights. We stop and ask someone to take our  picture, then giggle because we feel like tourists.
I'm looking at the four of us, so different, yet seemingly meant for each other. Each of us with our own perspective that balances the others with compliment, like a personified color wheel.

I'm reminded of a scene from the movie, 'Barefoot in the Park',  where Robert Redford is wandering around Madison Square drunk and without shoes because he has just gotten in a spat with his wife, Jane Fonda.
In the film, He's a stuffy, logical lawyer and she's an eccentric, carefree lover of life. Their differences are the root of a few quarrels, but in the end they discover they need each other for balance.
The following scene takes place just after Jane has found Robert incoherent in the park with a trash bin on his head, nearly catching pneumonia:

Jane: I want the old paul back
Robert: That Fuddy-Duddy
Jane: he's not a fuddy duddy. He's strong and dependable. He takes care of me, and protects me from people like you.
Janes husband has just climbed on the roof of their building. He is intoxicated and off his head, an act which is very out of character for him.
Jane: Paul? Paul! Aah. You're going to kill yourself. Come down!
Robert: No, Not until you've sai it again, loud and clear.
Jane: Anything, Paul, Anything.
Robert: My husband, paul bratter, rising young attorney, is a lousy, stinking, drunk.
Jane: My husband, paul bratter, is a lousy, stinking drunk, and I love him.

Thank you Jane Fonda, and Robert Redford for reminding me that good relationships, whether they be friendships or romantic, are not about changing the other person, nor are they about compromise. They are about acceptance  and loving every part of someone as they are, making you a more whole individual.

December 17th 2010:
Today I:

• Caught up on sleep
• Bought the tastiest eggnog cookies from trader joes
• Hunted for a hideous sweater at the salvation army
• Finished a painting
• Felt at peace when good company arrived
• Sang karaoke in Korean... a language I don't know
• Made a few new friends
• Cheered on Ian in a second avenue dance off
• Feasted like a queen at Burger King

 December 20th:

I am lying on the floor wrapped in my fuzziest blanket drinking champagne, eating skittles, and watching 'The Brothers Bloom" with jewlie.. Both of us have refused to get dressed today, and feel content with the decision.
Sometimes the big occasions leave a mark on our memory, other times, its the quiet moments like this one that stick with us.