Little White Car

What I’m about to tell you is by far the most embarrassing moment in my entire life to date.  I highly recommend you never do what I did to create a series of events that proves we must always be aware of our surroundings and keep our wits at all times.

In the late 1990’s I worked as a Marketing Director for a Sports Medicine Clinic in Huntington Beach, California.  We weren’t busy one Saturday afternoon.  The doctor couldn’t leave, but I could. 

He calls out from across the clinic as he’s throwing me his overloaded keyring, “Hey Diane, why don’t you take a break and go get my car washed.”

          I was totally up for it from the busy Saturday morning doing free chair massages to the people who were working out in the gym where his clinic was located. 

          “Sure, will,” I said quickly catching his keys in mid-air.

          “I’m driving my “little white car” today; I need it cleaned for my hot date tonight.”  He winked at me as he strolled his cocky self, straight back into his messy office.

          Bolting out the back door - to his cute “little white car” - opening the door - turning the key - holding the clutch in - starting it - looking out the back window - speeding out of the empty parking lot.  I thought to myself - how nice it would be - to have a “little white car” like this - as I shifted the gears - feeling like a race car driver - going toward Beach Boulevard – wind blowing my hair - looking like a young - wild and free - young lady - I wish - I could be. 

          The car wash wasn’t way too busy.  I noticed all the cars in the walking tunnel window rolling along a conveyer belt were either white or black.  Thinking to myself that this is so typical for Southern California.  I knew for a fact that I would never choose a black car because of the heat.  Then obviously there’s way too many “little white cars” everywhere and knowing me, I’d mistake one of them for mine.  I was giggling about how much I knew myself when I saw the doctor’s car getting blue foam suds spritzed all over it.

          I sat under a tattered umbrella picnic table watching all the cute men drying cars, touching up tires and washing all the windows.  I didn’t think twice - the man held his arm up - waving his dirty rag directly to me - motioning the car was ready - rushing to him - tipping generously - taking the car - happily cruising on - pounding on the door - to get let back in - from the parking lot. The doctor greeted me at the door.

          “Well, that didn’t take long at all.”  He said happily, grabbing his keys.

          He looked down in shock saying, “Diane, these aren’t my keys.”

          “What, oh yes they are.”  I stood dumfounded while stupidly arguing.

          Laughing hysterically the doctor hollered out, “You gotta take this vehicle back Diane.  This really isn’t my car.”

          He couldn’t contain himself while watching me as I fumbled with the keys unlocking the door.  All I could see in the rear-view mirror as I was pulling out was him leaning over, holding his gut and crossing his legs.

          You talk about someone driving like a bat out of hell, I made a straight beeline back to the carwash.  Praying like I’ve never prayed before while driving through yellow lights and making it into the parking lot in a do or die left turn in a busy traffic scenario with record speed. 

          Y’all, I was only gone for fifteen minutes.  When I pulled into that car wash, there was a boat load of cops up in there.  They weren’t wanting to get their vehicles cleaned either.  They wanted the dip who stole a car from a guy who just wanted a buck for a tip because he dried it off but good.

          Not giving me anytime to get out, the police officers surround the “little white car” with their hands donned and ready on their gun holsters. 

          Before the cops could draw their weapons, I hollered out in my best Hillbilly accent, “Hey y’all, don’t shoot.  It was a mistake; there’s so many dang “little white cars” out here in Southern California.  I reckon I got the wrong one.”

          The lady cop was snickering, knowing I was telling the truth as she gingerly helped me out of the “little white car” I just accidently stole.  The owner rushed up telling the crowd of cops standing around that he didn’t want to press any charges.  I could tell he knew that I made a completely honest mistake and grabbed the wrong “little white car.” 

They really did look alike!

As I drove the correct “little white car” back to that dagume clinic, I did notice the subtle differences with the two vehicles.  And you guessed it, the good doctor never had me go wash his car ever again.  Rightly so too, we both agreed from that day on, washing his “little white car” for a date will never be in my job description ever again.