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We got a new (to us) car, which was delivered while I was on a gig. And the Brick was headed out of town before I got back. No problem, he said -- he'd get me the keys (which he did) and leave the car in the airport parking lot.
(I should mention here that I can be just a little absentminded. I can tell you about the history of indigo, but am not always sure where my glasses or purse are.)
I fly home. It's late, and pouring rain. I ask the parking lot van to drop me by the car, which I can see vaguely through a rain-streaked window. They drive off, and I unlock the car.
Or I try to. I try and try...and the car just sits there. My stuff is getting wet. I'm getting wet-- and frustrated. Why didn't the Brick give me the right directions? How come I can't unlock the car?
A kindhearted man stops and takes pity on me. He'll help me, he says, looks around...and points to a similar vehicle a few rows over. "Is that yours?" he says. (To his credit, he didn't laugh.)
I have always wondered what Car #1's owner would have thought, if he'd seen this dripping-wet girl trying to break into his vehicle...and getting madder with the minute. God gave me another heads-up on the rainy drive home when I couldn't figure out how to run the windshield wipers more than a few seconds at a time.
I made it, though. Whew.
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