When I returned an hour later, Brenda stood in her driveway like a statue of suburban rage. She had been caught in a lie, and by morning, she transformed from an annoying neighbor into a Karen with a cause.
When two patrol cars screeched into my driveway with a full light show blazing, my peaceful Saturday evening officially ended. Four officers poured out like they were responding to an armed bank robbery.
Officer Chen, a twenty-year veteran with kind eyes and the patient demeanor of a man who had seen every flavor of neighborhood crazy, approached first. His partner, a younger guy named Morgan who looked like he bench-pressed squad cars for cardio, flanked him.
"Evening, sir. We received a report about a stolen vehicle at this address," Chen said.
The absurdity hit me like a spark plug to the forehead. "Stolen vehicle, Officer? This is my car, in my garage, at my house."
Brenda materialized beside the officers like a suburban poltergeist. "That's him! That's the car thief. I just bought that exact Camaro yesterday for $45,000!"
Stay calm, I reminded myself. My old man always said, Documentation beats desperation every time.
"Officers, I can prove ownership right now," I said calmly, pulling out my phone to show Chen my obsessively maintained photo album. "Rust bucket to rolling chassis to painted perfection."
Chen’s eyebrows climbed as he swiped through images of me installing the engine block and stitching the interior. "That's some serious craftsmanship. You do this professionally?"