The following post = a collection of random stories I managed to scribble down since moving to California about the joys and perils of car ownership.
So begins the process of selling the tourmobile. It was my intent to have a sale lined up, or at least an array of test drives scheduled, as soon as I arrived in San Francisco, but tour was a bit distracting, and I didn’t end up even posting a for-sale ad until after I had arrived.
The interest was surprising. I had phone call after phone call. This was a challenge for me, as I have a small phobia of answering numbers I don’t know… I had to overcome this quickly.
The whole car-selling process took a couple of agonizing weeks, but here are some days of note.
Car-detailing/lost-in-Japantown Day:
The car was looking a bit messy after living in it for six weeks. So, it was car detailing time. I found what appeared to be a reputable spot through Yelp, and scheduled an appointment. I googled the address, and it seemed to be relatively easy to find, on a busy street in Japantown.
As I’m driving to the appointment, I realize I forgot to bring directions. My appointment is in 3 minutes.
I finally find the building. I am 10 minutes late. I get a phone call from the detail man, wondering if I’m lost. I confirm this. He explains that I have to go into the parking deck, and lists off a few more directions that I can’t quite understand.
I enter the parking deck. His explanation made it sound like I would find the entrance to his shop in this deck. So, I’m looking for a sign or a door or a storefront, or something….
I drive down to the very bottom level of the underground deck. Nestled in a corner is what appears to be my detail shop. A bookshelf with supplies, a desk, a lamp, some hoses and a small plastic banner attached to the wall, occupying a 12-foot square in the corner of the parking deck. Nothing more. No building, no storefront, no structure whatsoever. Just a bookshelf and some hoses. Not quite what I expected. They tell me to come back in 2 hours, and suggest I go upstairs to check out the mall above.
I take the elevator to the mall level. The doors open, and I find myself in the middle of what appears to be some sort of festival. Everyone is dressed as some sort of anime character or schoolgirl or prostitute. I am one of the few people not in costume, and everyone is glaring at me as if I am the strangest person here.
I’m feeling a bit out of place. Some quick investigating tells me I’m in the middle of an annual Japanese rock festival. Fantastic. I grab a coffee at the nearby coffee shop within the mall, nestled in line between an obese white girl in a scanty pink milkmaid-esque dress and striped thigh-high stockings, and a pasty teenage guy in a large black trenchcoat with anime patches sewn on it, wearing pigtails and glitter on his face. This is going to be an interesting two hours.
I soon enough realized that I forgot my checkbook, and had to take the bus all the way home and get it, then bus all the way back (which happened to be a strange boat-shaped convertible muni bus.. the day just keeps getting weirder), and by that time, my car was ready. I still regret not bringing my camera back with me. Oh well, uncomfortable two-hour wait averted.
Test-Drive-Turned-Speed-Date Day:
With posting Craigslist ads comes much Craigslist attention. With posting your phone number on your car-for-sale ad comes many, many phone calls, not all of which are completely relevant to the car sale itself. Some people just want to talk.
And that’s apparently how I began my relationship with Bruce.
(I changed his name as to not perturb him if he finds this, and I do so reluctantly, as he has one of the most ridiculous names ever and it compliments the plot quite well.)
Bruce and I first exchange words on a Tuesday morning. He explains to me that he is interested in my car, and goes through much unnecessary detail explaining why. Unnecessary information noted. Great. I’d love to schedule an appointment for you to see it. Okay, great.
But Bruce is not done. The call quickly turns into what appears to be a phone-date, where I am being interviewed about my life and why I’m here and where I came from and what I’m studying and etc and etc. I provide minimal information but still attempt to sound charming, as I am trying to sell this car and would like to appeal to a sympathetic buyer, in hopes that they could offer me full price. I try as quickly as possible to turn the conversation back to the car, and finally manage to set up a test drive appointment… for an hour later.
Next thing I know, I’m on the way to Oakland. For the first time, I’m a bit uneasy about meeting up for test drive time. Previous appointments haven’t bothered me thus far, but I could tell that Bruce was very excited to meet me. It’s as if we’ve been building up to this moment for months.
Bruce, just as I expected, was a bit seedy looking, and a good 20-30 years my senior. This is obviously meant to be.
So the test drive began. I attempted to fill as much possible conversation time with car jargon, but, being Helena, I only had enough to say about the car to fill up.. say, a normal-length test drive, like 10 minutes or so. Ten minutes up, and Bruce was certainly not ready to end this test drive. He gets on the highway. Great. I’m going to die today.
Twenty minutes later, after hearing every detail of his life, his past, his aspirations, his passions, his fears… he pulls back into the parking deck. I have survived the unintended craigslist car date. I’m ready to end this quickly.
I begin to say my goodbyes. Bruce doesn’t want things to end. He asks me if I have time to eat lunch and “talk about life and stuff.” I tell him I have some appointments in the city that I must make sure I get back in time for, but look forward to hearing from him.
…about the car. I meant about the car.
I get a phone call a few days later. It’s Bruce. He wants to check on how my car sale is going and whether I still have it.
Yes! Perhaps he has decided that he wants to buy it! I tell him that I’ve been showing it, but yes I do still have it if he is interested in purchasing it.
Apparently Bruce is not particularly interested in the car, and has been looking at another one which he really likes. Bruce asks me if I’m showing the car in the East Bay at any point tomorrow.
Yes! Yes I am… maybe Bruce is interested in the car after all. Maybe.
But no. Bruce tells me that I should come down for a day in Oakland. We can get some lunch, get some drinks, just have a “fun lazy day.”
Right. I tell him I don’t think I’ll be having the time to do that.
Bruce never called back. Craigslist romance averted.
My-Car-Is-Stolen Day:
I am on my way to retrieve my car from the corner of 22nd and Capp, where I had parked it the previous night. I’m quite excited about the fact that I have an appointment to potentially sell my car lined up for the afternoon. The last day of car ownership is a beautiful day.
I arrive at the spot where I thought I had parked the tourmobile. It is not there.
I take a look around. I see no tourmobile. I am certain I parked it here. I look at the nearby parking signs. They read: “Street Cleaning 8am Mon Wed Fri.”
You are kidding me. It’s Friday morning and I was stupid enough to park my car in a street cleaning zone. My effing car is towed. I’m going to have to pay $375 to get it back, and somehow have all of this done by my car appointment this afternoon.
I am devastated. I call the number for the San Francisco towing database to see where my car is. After giving them all of my information, they tell me they don’t have my car.
But… you do. My car is not where it was parked. You towed it. It was street cleaning day.
They explain to me that they would have not towed my car in that area for any reason, and that they do not have my car, and that I need to call the police and file a stolen vehicle report.
But… my car can’t be stolen. They don’t have a key. That wouldn’t happen to me.
They explain to me that this happens all the time in San Francisco and I need to go ahead and call the police and report it as stolen.
Uh. Holy shit.
My car is stolen. The tourmobile is gone. This can’t be true.
I enter panic mode. I frantically search 22nd, 21st, and 20th streets in hopes that maybe I parked it on a different street than I thought, but I recognized all of the scenery of 22nd quite clearly. I definitely parked it here, and it is no longer here.
I call the police. I am incoherent with panic and grief.
“M-muhhhy carrrwh has beeun stooohhhhuuugghhhlllleeennnn”
“I have no idea what you just said. You are going to have to calm down and talk clearly ma’am.”
I sort of calm down and explain to them the situation. They tell me to go home, and they’ll meet me at my address to fill out the police report. I hurry home.
I wait patiently for a while. No cops are showing. I try to occupy myself in my house, devoid of wireless internet, nothing to do but call my family and a couple of friends and cry about my stolen car. FIVE hours later, they arrive. I give them all of my information and they are on their way in minutes. This is not a good day.
My-Car-Is-Actually-Not-Stolen Day:
Fast-forward two days later. I have come to terms with the fact that the car is gone, and am almost completely content with it. I have insurance that will likely cover the entire cost, I haven’t had to wake up early and move my car, I haven’t had to worry about parking tickets or towing. I don’t have to try and sell my car anymore. This isn’t so bad after all.
I’m walking down 22nd with Dakota, and we pass Capp. I explain that this is where the car was stolen. Dakota asks me if I looked everywhere for it. I tell her I spent at least an hour going up and down these streets and surrounding blocks. As I’m explaining this, I look over and see what looks just like my car. I think about the irony of someone parking a car exactly like mine in the same intersection where mine was stolen. I look closer. It… is my car. Parked 30 feet from where I thought it was. I had looked all over 22nd, and in my state of panic, apparently overlooked the cars parked on Capp.
I am sometimes astounded at my capacity for doing incredibly stupid shit.
I’m trying to wrap my brain around this. It’s like mourning the death of someone and then finding out they never actually died by running into them on the street. Certainly a much less severe version of that, but still really hard to process.
Well, first things first – call the police. Tell them that the car was never actually stolen. Yeah. It’s exactly where I left it. Yeah, I didn’t see it. Yes, I looked. Yes, I can meet the cops here at the car. Thanks.
The cops actually arrive right away. I can tell they are trying to suppress their amusement. But after messing up my report and having to call me back twice to fill out forms they forgot about, we parted ways with an equal level of shame.
The cop did warn me that there is a possibility that I will get pulled over at gunpoint if I drive the car over the next few hours, as the system sometimes takes a while to update. So me and Dakota take the car and go to Target.
We never got pulled over at gunpoint, which, now that it’s blogging time, is almost a little disappointing. Oh well. Maybe one day.
There are more stories. Stories about more crazy potential buyers, car shops that made up $2000 worth of fake internal damages when others gave me clean diagnostic evaluations, chasing off more tow trucks, getting $400 worth of parking tickets in a week…. but this blog is getting lengthy. I’ll end things here. Hooray for this crazy, hilarious, ironic week being over!