The pre-owned 2005 Toyota Corolla. A majestic specimen in beige.
Well, Desert Sand Mica, if you want to get technical. But let’s be honest: it was beige.
If you robbed a bank in a beige 2005 Toyota Corolla, you would never be caught. Witnesses wouldn’t be able to describe it. They’d squint and say, “I think he got away in a... a vaguely car-shaped... smudge?” The security camera footage would be useless - just a man floating away in a seated position.
My budget-minded parents didn’t buy the car to make a statement. They bought it because it was practical, affordable, and had a good chance of outliving us all. And besides, they weren’t about to splurge on a Camry.
I was twenty-five. I’d flown in from California to visit them in New Jersey. A few days later, I needed a way to get to a college friend’s wedding on Long Island. “Take the Corolla,” my dad said.
The venue was one of those mid-range wedding factories - three brides, three separate receptions, three conjoined ballrooms. During lulls, you could hear cheers and thumping bass from the party next door. That kind of place.
I handed the keys to the valet. The parking lot behind him looked like a car dealership. My girlfriend and I walked inside. We danced, shouted small talk over the music, and left after midnight, exhausted.
I gave my ticket to the valet. He jogged into the lot and returned with the Corolla, engine running. I got in. She got in. We started down the expressway toward New Jersey.
For a little while, we drifted in that post-wedding haze. Eyes on the road, minds already home.
About twenty minutes in, my girlfriend broke the silence. “Doesn’t the odometer have more miles on it than when we drove it to the wedding?”
I looked down at the little digits. “What?” I said, rubbing my eyes.
“I just thought it was lower on the way there,” she said.
“You memorized the odometer? What are you, Rain Man?” I smiled. “You think the valet took it out for a joyride?” She snorted, closed her eyes, and leaned back against the headrest.
This car wasn’t for joyful riding. This car was for sensible merging.
Ten minutes later, she spoke again. “What are those streaks on the windshield? Were those there before?”
I squinted at the glass. “Streaks? It’s dark. The glare from the lamps is hitting it differently.” Back to the road.
On the dashboard, an orange glow caught my eye. The check engine light. Running a little hot, maybe. Corollas are bulletproof. Probably just needs an oil change. I’m sure Dad knows about it.
We drove in silence for a while. It felt heavier than before.
“Mind if I turn the radio on?” I asked. She hummed in agreement.
I pressed the number one preset.
A wall of thrash metal blasted me in the face. Slayer’s Raining Blood. I frantically mashed the power button, silencing the double-kick drums.
I frowned at the dashboard. Mom? For a split second, I pictured my mother, the conservatory-trained classical pianist, headbanging on the Turnpike. Actually, no. She’d be frowning at the stereo: “Everything is fortissimo. Where’s the phrasing?”
They probably never changed that preset. Or maybe Dad needed something to keep him awake. The thought was still nagging at me when my girlfriend spoke.
“Uh... Mark?“ She pointed at the ceiling. I looked up, expecting a spider. But it was worse.
From the rearview mirror dangled a dark string of beads. A rosary.
“Oh, God,” I said. We looked at each other.
I pulled the car onto the shoulder of the Long Island Expressway, threw it into park, and turned on the dome light.
We looked around. Really looked.
A stack of CDs in the center console. A glossy brochure for a timeshare in Phoenix splayed across the backseat. We sat there for a moment, surrounded by the belongings of strangers.
“This isn’t the right car,” I whispered.
“We stole a car,” she whispered back.
I fumbled for my phone and dialed. The valet picked up on the second ring.
“Hi, I was at a wedding there tonight. I think you gave me the wrong car.”
No apology. Just immediate irritation. “You need to bring it back,” he snapped. “They’re waiting.”
“I’m on the L.I.E. I’m turning around now.”
An hour ago, I’d been a tired wedding guest. Now, I was driving a stolen vehicle. Bonnie and Clyde in a beige Corolla.
I stayed under the speed limit. I gripped the wheel at 10 and 2 like I was taking my road test. Every pair of headlights in the rearview mirror was the State Police.
I could already see the mugshot. Me in a wrinkled suit. Sweaty. Bewildered. Adjusting my pocket square for a shred of dignity. The booking officer asking if I wanted to make a statement and me blurting out “THE CAR WAS HANDED TO ME” before he finished the question. The public defender sighing. The judge sighing. My cellmate - a man who’d stolen eleven cars on purpose - looking at me and sighing.
Officer, I accidentally stole this car. It was dark. Even in my imagination, the cop didn’t buy it.
“How did you not notice?” my girlfriend asked.
“The car?” My voice cracked on car, which seemed fitting. “They just bought it. I’d never even been inside!”
She considered this. “So you’ve driven two Corollas tonight and recognized neither of them.”
I opened my mouth. Closed it. She had me there.
A few miles passed. “Want me to turn the radio on?” she said.
“Let’s leave it off,” I whispered. “Criminals need to concentrate.”
“What if they have our plates?” she whispered.
Neither of us knew whose plates we had.
I rehearsed what I’d say when I got there. I’m so sorry. The valet handed me the keys. I didn’t realize until we were on the expressway. I’d be contrite. I’d keep my voice steady.
An agonizing half hour later, I turned into the venue’s driveway. Under the portico lights, a woman in a sari was already mid-eruption.
She was speaking in a language I didn’t understand - rapid, furious, percussive - not a word of English. She gestured at me with an upturned palm without looking, the way you’d point out a wobbly table to a waiter.
She was addressing her husband. He stood there in a tuxedo, absorbing the onslaught. He didn’t flinch.
Then I heard it. One word in English. “Joyride.”
I couldn’t help myself. “No joyride!” My voice came out high and tight. “There was no joyride! Not a joyride!” I sounded like I was arguing with a meter maid.
“The valet gave me the wrong--” but she was already talking over me, still addressing her husband. Now both of us were pleading to him - her in rapid-fire fury, me in desperate English - our voices colliding in the air. He stood there like a man waiting for a bus.
Finally, we exhausted ourselves. A beat of silence.
“Not a joyride,” I pouted, to no one in particular.
The husband turned to me. I braced for it.
His eyes were kind. Almost amused.
“We have been waiting forty-five minutes,” he said, his tone calm. “We have a 6 am flight to Mumbai.” I waited for the rest. None came.
He opened the driver’s side door, then paused.
“So,” he said. “How does she handle?”
I decided in that moment that I needed to be the most helpful car thief in history.
“She runs a little hot,” I said, with total sincerity. “Your check engine light is on. Probably just needs an oil change - these things are bulletproof.”
He nodded gravely. “I’m not worried,” he said. “It’s a Corolla.”
He got in. His wife got in, still not looking at me. The valet offered them another apology. And they drove away.
I turned to the valet. I expected - I don’t know - something? “So,” I said. “Where is my car?”
He walked to the back of the lot without a word, pulled up a vehicle, and handed me the keys with a sneer.
“Most people recognize their own car, sir.”
I wanted to scream. You brought me the car. You handed me the keys. You didn’t recognize it either. And they were the same make, model, color, and year!
I didn’t say any of that. I just took the keys.
Somewhere on the Long Island Expressway, a nice couple was racing toward JFK, hoping to make their flight. I pictured the husband at the wheel, serene as ever, while his wife made her closing arguments from the passenger seat. I wished them well. They’d had a longer night than they signed up for.
The parking lot had emptied out. We got into the car. She sank back against the headrest.
I looked around. No rosary. No CDs in the center console. Just the familiar quiet of a car that belonged to my parents. Allegedly.
I pressed the first preset. “Traffic and weather together on the ones - 1010 WINS.”
Not Slayer. Good enough for me.
She glanced at the dashboard. “Was there... always... a...” Her voice trailed off. Her eyes had settled shut.
I kept driving.
This essay was originally published here on my blog, Attunement.
You’re a great writer and thats a hilarious story!