The following message was left under my windshield:
Hi I am interested in this car “as is” call/text at [phone number edited out] Thanks! -Dave.
Note the signature. None other than the man named Dave was back to reclaim his car, I speculated.
I imagine Dave accidentally left something in the car. Something valuable — drugs or money. But I think, for him to want this old Toyota, he must have left behind something more crucial than those. Maybe it involved blackmail, the FBI, or even Witness Protection. Or all three.
This situation had to be the workings of his devious band of junk-car sellers, the band that sells and re-sells cars that may or may not have the potential to explode at any given second.
This “Dave” character never ended up seeing the car — his hangover got in the way. Likely story.
Since then, I’ve moved home back to the East Coast. I left that car in California and hope that it disappears. But since the move, I’ve discovered that I cannot legally sell this car. Without getting into specifics, I now know that this rolling piece of metal is non-transferable.
Nowadays, I spend most of my time in my cubicle working away in this place called purgatory. In the neighboring cubicle, I hear a revving engine.
And in the cubicle on my other side, I hear coughing and hacking and someone typing on a computer keyboard. One day, I wheeled around and introduced myself. He replied with a soft voice, “Hi, my name is Dave.”