The Lost Car

This is the true story of three maidens who lost a car, and the minor tragedies suffered in their great adventure to retrieve it.

The three, who shall remain unnamed, were once visiting the beautiful city of Savannah, Georgia. Now, as maidens on occasion are wont to do, they were running late. The amazingly modern miracle of Google Maps informed them they were but twelve minutes from their destination. This, in itself, is not a number too large, but there arose yet a problem, for the three were well aware the Riverboat Ride for which they had carefully purchased tickets—Alas!—was to leave in minutes numbering ten.

And so they toiled through the busy streets, casting their eyes this way and that, searching upon their devices for a place in which to park. It seemed there was nothing. But one, alert, suddenly cried, “There!” and the member of the party behind the wheel speedily turned the car into the lot. Doors opened before the car had hardly stopped, and anxious feet pounded down the sidewalks, sometimes walking, sometimes running.

The boat was reached in time, much to the relief of all, and, in spite of much huffing and puffing, the next two hours were spent enjoying the rays of the sun upon their skin and making, it must be admitted, snide remarks about the tour guide, whose jokes were so bad not even the dads were laughing.

And so it was when the pleasant time was over and the trio disembarked, they wandered through shops and stopped for a treat of ice cream, for it was, after all, vacation.

Then it was time to venture back to the automobile which had been left in such haste a few short hours before.

With confidence they began their journey, never dreaming of the hours which lay between them and the glossy black carriage which they had so lately left.

“Is this the street?” asked one.

“Of course,” said another, “and then we turn up there,” finger pointing, “at least, I’m pretty sure that’s where it is.”

And so they strode swiftly up the hill, ready to continue with their journey.

But it was not to be. At the place they paused—for there was no car, not even an oil spot. In truth, the parking lot on which they gazed was not the same one they had left post haste but a few hours before.

“I think it was over that way,” announced the third.

Together, they turned and walked with measured tread and uneasy dread, to discover, much to the dismay of all, that this spot, too, yielded neither car nor recognition.

“Maybe we should have taken that other street,” suggested the first, waving vaguely in the direction of a lane long past.

The others groaned, but as there was no other thought forthcoming, fell in line and marched with trepidation toward the street.

It takes no great mind to recognize the outcome. There was neither car, nor even parking lot at all.

The three took pause.

“What shall we do?” asked one.

“Where should we go?” inquired second.

The third spoke not, but gazed into the screen of a cellular device, tracking whence the travels that day had taken them. Then, decisively, “This way,” she said.

And so they followed, first and second, trusting third would know the way.

But though they followed faithfully each turn they were tasked with taking, they found, dismayed, the destination covered with yellow banners and orange obstacles, surrounded by fences of chain. No parking lot, no oil spot, and certainly no car.

And for the next hours they wandered the streets, trying this one, trudging that one, all to no avail.

At last, they sat down on the curb, discouraged, hungry (for lunch had been forgone), with neither water nor much cell phone battery left of which to speak.

Said one, whose phone still showed a little bar, “We should call a taxi.”

Forsooth, the deed was done. A taxi service and an uber both were pled with to make a quick appearance.

“Where are you located?” asked the driver of one.

The maidens looked around. The business on the corner was a bar, and so they gave the name. “We will be there in thirty or forty minutes,” said he.

Time passed slowly. The taxi nor the uber hove in sight. Calls were made again—“Where are you?”

“Coming,” was the answer.

Yet a third time the call was made, and on this attempt, the call was left ignored, much to the increasing alarm of the maidens, for the sun was slowly sinking away and it was fast becoming dusk.

There seemed little hope but to walk again.

They straggled drearily to their feet, pulling strength from deep inside that none would guess existed in their dehydrated forms.

The one whose phone was somewhat working, searched and found a police station nearby. “Let’s go and ask for help,” she suggested.

The others nodded wearily, and all weaved down the street in search of what, they hoped, would be a saving sanctuary.

And there it was! A building rusty red, with iron rails on the steps. Eager eyed, they scanned the scene, then hope dropped like a leaden balloon onto their tired feet. For perchance there once had been a station here, with helpful men in blue, but if that were the truth, it had been many years since such had been found in the now-decrepit building.

Shoulders drooping, they looked about. The search now had continued for nearly two hours and a half, and one cannot blame them for their wearied state.

Yet what was that? A policemen’s cruiser! Parked in a lot nearby. Perhaps there was reason for spirits to be lifted!

And so they trudged, their steps much slower than before, anxious to ask for help. As they drew nearer, unease grew a little in each breast, until finally the awful truth dawned upon them all. The car was void of occupants—neither man nor beast graced its inner comfort.

Shadows lengthened as they gazed in consternation at the empty cruiser sitting placidly before them.

But the third maiden had had enough. “I shall find a place,” she proclaimed, “whence I shall use the toilet.”

With this decisive speech there followed equally decisive action. A new spring had come into the step, and all haste was made to find this place of refuge.

Past two valets, waiting by the back entrance of an elegant hotel, the three marched confidently. Into the interior, past a sign that said, “No public restrooms!”, past the empty service desk, they marched.

The deed done, they exited, out the way they’d come, only this time stopping to speak with the valets.

“Can you help us?” pleaded one.

The valets, both young men, listened to the story, chuckling only slightly, keeping it quite politely, behind their hands.

They discussed between themselves. What could they do to help?

One picked up his phone (Luckily they were not busy) and called the nonemergency number, and tried his best to explain the situation to the faceless person speaking on the line.

“They said they’d come,” he told the maidens, “and see what they can do.”

And then he offered, kindly, that they could buy some snacks, and charge all wireless devices with his own charging cord, which was done with much humble gratitude.

Time passed. No shining car with blazing lights appeared. Two peered blankly down the street, one gazed relentlessly into the face of her most modern mode of mobile, but all to no avail, for the path that they had taken would not, or was it could not? Be traced at all.

One young valet moved restlessly. “I’ll drive you around, if you want, when my shift is over,” he offered in a manner as gallant as any knight of old could have offered to slay a dragon. “I’ll soon be off the clock, and I’d be glad to help.”

The three considered. This might be their only option, the only hope they had.

But it was at this juncture a patroller’s car appeared and parked across the street.

A lone policewoman stepped out, hand upon the weapon at her side. Striding masterfully across the street, she came.

“What seems to be the matter?” she demanded.

The three encircled her explaining best they could, “Well, you see, we can’t find our car.”

Narrowed eyes relaxed a little. “Well,” she said, “It doesn’t sound like I need to write up a report.”

With haste the maidens did agree this view was valid.

“It doesn’t really sound like there’s trouble,” she continued, “it sounds only like, perhaps you are,” she paused, searching for the word.

“Lost?” supplied the third.

And so it the policewoman (may all who don the uniform be blessed!) offered that one—the owner of the car, should travel with her to find the place where it mysteriously had disappeared.

So one embarked upon the journey, riding behind the bars of the cruiser, sliding none too elegantly across the seat whereon she sat, trying to explain the best she could the place whereupon so much earlier the chariot had been left.

At last, at last, the weary maiden spied the form so much beloved. “That’s it!” she cried.

The woman driving looked amazed. “You walked a long way,” she said. And not one of the three would have disagreed.

The one profusely thanked her, then slipping in behind the wheel made haste back to where the others waited. Never had hearts warmed so much to see a motorcar. Never had the maidens found the seats so comfortable into which they sank. The car was found, at last, after only nearly four hours of searching.

Do true stories come with morals? This one has, perhaps, if you look closely, two.

The first is always know exactly where you’ve parked your car, and second?

When the need arises, it’s always wise to stop and find a loo.