Imagine my surprise when I had finally finished up the arduous and death-defying task of getting the boy ready for daycare, herded him out the door, and Bandido Rojo… was… not there.
A confirmation call later, there really was no other explanation. Someone had stolen the car off our quiet street while we slept thirty or so feet away (with the bedroom window open). I am at a loss to explain why someone would want a fifteen year old subcompact car (though I know from hard experience that replacement parts for this model do cost a fortune), and anyone who wanted a joyride would surely find the performance of our mean machine somewhat joyless.
Hardly a tragedy. And the police may recover the beast yet — I was told by the cops that if I found the car I was not to drive it, apparently their policy is to apprehend drivers of stolen cars at gunpoint. But plenty of hassle with insurance and alternate travel arrangements — which together have managed to suck up most of a day that was way over-booked already.
We bought Bandido Rojo seven years ago and took it straight to Mexico, where it endured bad gas, bad roads, bad driving, insane mechanics and intense heat. It never really recovered from its year of living dangerously, but it stubbornly refused to die.
If I never see you again — vaya con dios, el carro valiente…