I was carjacked this week.
The engine was running and the radio on as I waited in the passenger seat outside the USU library. Unsurprisingly, a young man began walking toward me and I braced myself for a lecture and some clear pointing to the 'no parking' sign. I had already prepared my excuse for being there, and would claim this was my friend's car (which was true), she would only be another minute (also true) and that I didn't know how to drive stick (not true) so could I please stay another minute Mr. Student Parking-Nazi man?
My mouth was half-open with half-lies when he opened the door, climbed in with his backpack still on, scooted the seat back and proceeded to put the car in first gear.
I smiled. I should have screamed ... but all that came out was a polite, "Can I help you?"
"Is this your car?"
And so we drove. Not far. Just long enough for me to learn his name was Ritt, he wasn't really that interested in small talk and this gag was all to prove to a friend he could do it. At least he had a nice smile ... I've always wanted to be carjacked by a man with dimples.
He pulled the car to the sidewalk opposite where I was before, facing in a strange direction. He got out and said with a serious tone and a contrived look of sternness, "I don't want to see you move this," and shut the door. I changed the radio station and seeing an actual campus facilities truck coming toward me complete with an orange cone, I moved over into the driver's seat. I then moved back, restless and unsure of what to do next. The facilities truck kept moving. I pulled on my seat belt, changed back the radio and waited.
"Why are you parked over here?" Natalie asked, climbing in a few books less than when she had climbed out.
"Oh. You know," I said.
......................................................It was freezing cold and windy when I went to throw open the door and squeeze into my living room. Which would've been great only the door didn't open. I was locked out and somewhat put out--we haven't locked the door since November. Who was the idiot that forgot I worked till 2 a.m.? I called every roommate in the apartment on their cell phone, banged and shouted and even rang our weak doorbell.
Giving up, I went up the stairs, around the house down the window well and with one high heel in the bed frame and another reaching around the pile of clothes on the floor I slipped not so quietly into my room. It was eerily easy to break in. The window didn't give even a hint of resistance when I nudged it open from the outside. It made me even more angry the door had been locked -- I'd rather have a serial killer come through the front door than end up immediately in my bedroom and yet it was the living room with the Schlage deadbolt. I wiped the leaves off my legs and Marie's skirt, the pleated black one I had slipped out of a closet in an apartment that wasn't mine without permission and shut the window, realizing that if it wasn't so cold, was there really a point?
Carjacking, breaking and entering, stealing skirts; these are now all things that are not as hard to do as I imagined. Maybe one day I'll master the art of a good hold up, but until then, I think my college education has me covered.