They Got me, Part One

So, I’m here to tell ya, car theft can leave its mark, especially when it’s my car.

Back in The Day, when I was figuratively green behind the ears and a first-year dental student at the University of Southern California, what I first noticed was a dominant population of rich kids having an awesome time while maybe learning stuff in the neighborhood where I was born. We moved when I was six years old, after my big brother met with some violent high school challenges and sharp instruments not of the dental kind.

And while I learned many things while doing four years at USC D-school, one has persisted just like a serious chronic skin condition…of the brain. I developed soundtracks playing in the back of my head like “Too good to be true” (finding empathetic instructors) and “It can’t happen to me” (having my car stolen). And admittedly, the two repetitive thoughts were bogus, because I did find one instructor who took an interest in my progress, and my car did get swiped. After 46 years of private practice and reading Soundtracks by Jon Acuff, I finally captured what should have been my undergraduate theme, “Every time, somehow, I always figure things out.” But the effects of my four years sometimes still re-surface, mostly during my sleep, but one time right out loud while I was wide awake and even mobile.

I remember the experience like it was yesterday, but gratefully not last night.

Staying late in dental school carried some risk, especially during Year One in…gulp, 1969. The Crips were no joke and the only defense I carried back to my car was a metal brainless head (not mine) called an articulator. And today, it’s indeed alarming knowing that brainless heads can be elected to high office.

But one night, when I made a stealth night escape out of the great white/three stories high USC dental ship on 34th Street and followed up with a powerful move to my 1965 red Chevy Corvair, the trip was a success, but my “dangerous at any speed” chariot was missing. I called my dad, he picked me up, and we filed a complaint at Newton Police station. They got me. They ripped off my first car during my first Trojan trimester! But at least I had one more thing in common before Christmas (as a Cal State LA kid) with eight outta twenty-four of my multi-disciplinary room classmates. The Crips were batting 0.333. But those were the days when crying wolf (even to yourself) didn’t trigger a visit from the national guard.

So I have three nightmares that come and go; two of ‘em relate to my four years in dental school, like fifty years ago. One nightmare is that the faculty, decked out in white coats, white belts, white shoes, but no golf clubs, won’t let me out. I’m always like five credits away from a paper escape. I wake up, look around knowing they can’t touch me anymore and go back to a sound sleep.

Another nightmare presents itself in three forms: I’m playing basketball and suddenly I can’t make a shot from any range. I’m playing tennis and I can’t get a serve in. I’m playing golf and for the life of me, can’t find a decent location to tee it up (sometimes when I find it, I’m then blocked by a tree that cancels out access to the fairway.) I think I may have mentioned in another column that I once had a practice advisor who paid for my four sessions with his “Life Coach”.

The third recurring nightmare used to happen at least once a month. It’s the Corvair Classic. Most of the time, I dream I arrive at the given location, usually a restaurant, somehow sensing that I’m parking the car in a “steal zone.” Next thing you know, I’ve finished my gelato (various flavors) and return to the “steal zone” this time, to find no 3-series BMW. Totally frustrating! I knew it. And just like in the November of ‘69, I search all the other imagined back-up parking sites and then wake up with upper lip sweat and a spin class pulse, understanding that my car is in the garage.

Except for early November 2024 golf disturbances, the Nightmare trinity hadn’t been much of an issue for a few years. And your guess is as good as mine, but I took the frustrating November links dreams as a sign of future horrible golf coming straight outta DC. Little did I know that golf would be the least of all concerns.

The experience that really got me happened in January of 2024; and sure, I can laugh about it now. It all started innocently enough. Two of my former MVP co-workers and I embarked on a trip to Austin and a dental conference I’ve been attending since 1998. Ontario International (CA) was packed. I dropped off Team Leader Dani and her sister, Consultant Denise, and finally found a parking spot in the far reaches of remote parking. I even took a photo, and I must admit I felt a little proud of myself for doing so.

The conference was great, the BBQ in Austin was even greater. The flight home was smooth; we landed early. We then wandered the now slightly thinned-out vastness of Ontario (not the province) in search of my silver 3-series BMW. After the first 30 minutes, I began my zombie stroll, shuffling my feet, right arm extended and clicking my car key fob looking for blinking lights and listening for a chirp. As I shuffled on, I started mumbling, “They got me.” All things being equal, I would’ve preferred “they” being the Crips rather than the ghosts of dental school faculty past.

Then Denise asked for a chance to see the damn photo I’d taken on Day One; she looked scanned, stood, and delivered…a chirp and a blink of light coming from a silver 3-series BMW. They didn’t got me this time, but after all, you never know.