I cannot begin this story without first describing my car. After my first crap car was smashed to pieces in a wreck not my fault, I was on the look out for the cheapest but longest lasting car possible. The end result was he whom I refer to as "Chancey," the tan 1986 Pontiac Bonneville, complete or shall I say lacking all four hub caps, the hood ornament, and a general sense of dignity. Chancey is 21 years old, a year older than I am, but still has automatic locks and windows, although only the automatic windows actually work. Oh, and one more thing, in another road trip I am not chronicling in this story, my companions decided they wanted to graffity the inside of my car -- and so now anyone who rides in my car pulls out a Sharpie and signs their name, doodles, writes mathematical equations, or the infamous "Vaginas, Oo-Ha-Ha!" or "Drugs ---->"

On this particular occassion, I was driving from my small town Kentucky college to visit my friends at Vanderbilt in Nashville. Upon arrival, I was just happy that Chancey and I had made it that far without dying. My friends convinced me to drive them to the Tennessee state fair, that night's entertainment. None of us wanted to take our purses in, so we left them in the car and then I locked the doors and we headed out to enjoy rides, food-on-a-stick, and a shark show. About an hour later, the skies erupt in a downpour. Like most of the people in the park, we decided it was time to go and we headed back to Chancey, who, by the way, was parked in a lot with a gate that locked automatically at midnight.

When we get there, I can't find the keys in my coat pocket. I can't find the keys in my jeans pocket. I can't find the keys in anyone's pockets. A slight panic sets in -- I was sure I had taken them in with me. We are wandering around the lot, looking to see if I've dropped them anywhere when we hear three loud pops - POP! POP! POP! And look up to see about five dark figures running away from a house. I might mention that at this point, the rain has slacked to a slight drizzle.

We convince ourselves it must have been just firecrackers...although we saw none, and we wander off back to the fair to look for my keys. We are accosted by no less than four policemen on horseback who demand to know if we know anything about "the shooting." We insist it was just firecrackers, as it occurred only fifty feet away from us and we are a little freaked out.

We begin scouring the park, looking in the food court, the karoake stand, the shark tank arena, trying to find my keys. I ask no less than ten police men where the Lost and Found is, and they continue to reply that no keys have been found. I very patiently (the first four times) explain that I am aware there have been no sets of keys turned, but am looking for the Lost and Found so I may put in a description. About the eleventh policeman directs me to a trailer on the complete opposite end of the park so I can describe my lack of keys to no less than twenty policemen, sitting around, doing nothing, and in no way inclined to assist us in our search.

Eventually, we give up on the search within the park -- although not until after we have been accosted by Carneys still trying to get us to play games even though it's still raining and we snap at them -- "Is the prize my car keys?!?!" So we head back to Chancey and flag down the only policeman not investigating the shooting -- which, at this point, we have come to accept was an actual shooting, although with no casualties.

Officer Hottie, as we deemed him, reluctantly comes over to Chancey and starts trying to use his tool to open a window. Meanwhile, in girlish high spirits, we are playing volleyball with leftover cotton candy. Of course. Officer Hottie spots the keys in the ignition. I am awesome. Suddenly, the gate, which you recall locks automatically at midnight, starts closing. Two of my friends pelt off to the gate and physically hold it open while it tries to close, so hopefully we can eventually get out and so can Officer Hottie. Meanwhile, one of the girls calls her boyfriend to come with a coat hanger to continue to try and get into the car and also her AAA people.

Officer Hottie has, at this point, been working relentlessly at Chancey for a good thirty minutes. AAA arrives and the AAA guy and Officer Hottie work together to use a pressure thing to open the back vent of Chancey's window. I might mention that the back windows in Chancey only vent open and do not roll down. So they think they can pry one open and use Officer Hottie's tool to unlock the back door. Just as the boyfriend-with-coat-hanger arrives, Officer Hottie and AAA succeed.

We cheer all of them on and open all the doors. Officer Hottie is apparently rather finicky about his appearance and gets a wet wipe out of his squad car and carefully cleans each nail as he informs me that my car is very dirty. I inform him that my car is 21 years old and while still running and greatly appreciated, rather a piece of crap. Officer Hottie then spots someone's purse in the back seat.

"Who's purse is that?" His voice is suddenly stern.

One of the girls hesitantly admits it is hers.

"You shouldn't leave it visible in the floor like that," he informs us, "Someone might see it and break into your car."

We stare at him incredulously.

"Officer Hottie," --okay, I didn't call him that to his face, but, "You just spent the better part of an hour trying to break into my car with your professional tools."

"Ah, yes."

Luckily, we encountered no other such misfortunate during the trip, although on a subsequent visit to Nashville to visit the same people, Chancey and I got lost in downtown-by-the-river-Nashville at close to midnight. We did make it back in one piece however.

And I swear every word of this is true, except perhaps the estimates of numbers of policemen.

Hope you enjoyed.