A Few Buttons Missing
Yesterday I lost my car.
I had driven into Peterborough to buy groceries at Shaw’s Supermarket, and afterward, I went to the Toadstool Bookstore to see if they had a novel by Ursula K. LeGuin called Always Coming Home. No luck, but I noticed a new version of The Iliad, written by a feminist, and thought, if this lady can reshape an epic about men massacring one another into a story about women, she’s in the company of Euripedes. So I bought the book – A Thousand Ships, by Natalie Haynes. I haven’t started reading it yet, but when I finish it, I might write a synopsis and review of it for my blog, ragbag mind.com.
When I came out of the bookstore, my car was gone. It couldn’t have been stolen: it’s a thoroughly used Oldsmobile 88, and I only paid $1500 for it. In any case, Peterborough is generally a law-abiding town whose worst villains are greedy real-estate developers and power-hungry members of the town planning board.
I’m 78, and over the last few years I’ve experienced the odd memory lapse, like most people my age. But these blank-outs have involved forgetting where I left my cell phone, going into another room and briefly wondering why, or leaving the screen porch to use the bathroom and on my return, being befuddled as to the whereabouts of the crossword puzzle I was doing. I have never mislaid a whole car.
In a panic, I called my wife Patsy, thinking vaguely that she was always better at finding things that I was, and would locate the car. I had forgotten that she was having lunch with friends, but she answered her cell phone, and told me, with remarkable patience, to calm down and start looking more methodically. I thanked her, and started combing the town again. First I walked to Depot Square and checked out the parking spaces in front of the shops. Then I went back to the bookstore and crossed behind it to go to the little gazebo that overlooks the river. No joy on the way, and I sat down on a bench to cudgel my wits. There was another guy about my age sitting on a bench nearby, and he asked me how I was doing. “Not great,” I said. “Believe it or not, I lost my car.”
“What do you mean? Was it impounded or something?”
“No, no, I just forgot where I left it.”
He gave me a long look and finally said, “What kind of car is it?”
“A gray Oldsmobile 88.”
“They don’t make the 88 anymore.”
My turn to give him a long look. “I know. I got it used. It’s kind of nondescript.”
Something in my tone must have pissed him off. “You’re kind of nondescript yourself,” he said. Weird response – was he trying to make a joke, or even dafter than I was? I didn’t want to find out, so I left the gazebo.
I’ve had both knees replaced, and I’ve got back trouble, so I walk slowly, gimping a bit. I made my way back to the Toadstool’s parking area and turned right. I encountered another man of my vintage sitting in a chair in front of the Holistic Healing Center.
“Arthritis?” he asked me.
“That, and other aches and pains.”
He nodded. “Getting old ain’t for sissies.”
“That’s for sure,” I said, and sat down in the chair next to him.
“Nice day,” he said.
“It is. But I have a problem.”
“You mean other than arthritis?”
“Yeah. I forgot where I parked my car.”
The second man nodded. “That happens when you get to be our age. What kind of car is it?”
I described it, and he said, “Well, it didn’t drive away by itself. I can have a look, since you have trouble walking.”
“Wow, that’s very nice of you,” I said. “You really don’t mind?”
“Nah. It’s good for me to move around as much as I can. Why don’t you give me the keys? When I find it, I can drive it back to you.”
“Oh, that’s too much to ask of you,” I said. “Just tell me where it is.”
“No problem,” he said, and took off. He was a lot spryer than I am.
He was back in five minutes. “Is this it?” he asked, showing me a picture on the screen of his cell phone.
“It sure is! You found it!”
“It’s right behind the Peterborough Diner,” he said.
“Man, I don’t know how to thank you. I thought I was losing what’s left of my marbles.”
“I know the feeling,” he said. “Just last week I went into the hardware store for a few things, and realized I’d left my list at home.”
“Ouch,” I said.
“Yup. Like I said, it happens to us all. You OK now?”
“Yes, I’m fine. Thank you again.”
“Glad to be of help,” he said. “Take care.”
“You too.”
I stood up and headed for the Diner. The 88 was right where he said it was. I drove home, feeling less daft. Thanks to a kind stranger, order had been restored to my world, at least this time around. But I knew my forgettory would kick in again, so at my brother Mike’s suggestion, I resolved that next time I went shopping, I’d write exactly where I left the Olds on my shopping list. Of course that wouldn’t work if I forgot the list, but never mind.
I’ve started A Thousand Ships, and it’s a corker. Unless Ms. Haynes botches the ending, I’ll write a rave review of it and post it to my blog, ragbagmind.com. Unless I forget.