This is not a confession. This story is not legally binding. I will deny its authenticity to the death. This one time… I helped steal a car.

 

Many years ago, I knew a woman with a name I don’t member. It was Irish-like. Irish names use letters and phonetics in a way unnatural to the human tongue. Pronunciations for the likes of sea witches and banshees. Anyway… let’s call her Moira. Moria was from up North somewhere. I believe she had relocated to the Appalachian Mountains due to a relationship that didn’t work out. She was stuck here until she could figure her way back home. We had crossed paths via online personal ads or a dating site or something like that. We chatted a few times but hadn't met. She wanted to once, but I chickened out. I believe that subconsciously I knew I wasn’t ready to be ravaged by this Irish storm. Sometimes adventure calls and you have to say no for your own health and safety. Anyway, we drifted apart as quickly as we met, and I assumed that I would never hear from Moira ever again. But then one day, months later, after work there was a voicemail on my phone. Moira needed help.

I’m paraphrasing but: “This is Moira. I hate to ask you, but you are the only person I know in the area. I need some help. Please give me a call.”

I recently got back together with my future wife. Staying out late at night to help a woman I met on a dating site wasn’t going to be a good look for me. But sometimes adventure calls and chivalry would demand that you help a stranger in need. I am nothing if not a gentleman. I called Moria. She thanked me and told me that she needed help stealing a car. Sometimes adventure calls… and you have to say, “Eh… why not?” In the words of the midnight philosopher Dave Attell, “Do it for the story.”

It was dark when I met her at a local car dealership. She was what I imagined she would be like: tall and buxom, with red hair that highlighted flushed cheeks. She was a big woman. I don’t mean that in a condescending way or in any insulting manner. She was the kind of woman a Viking would tell stories in Valhalla about conquering this giant of a woman in one-on-one combat. I’m 6’1” and I didn’t feel tall around her. Outside of her stature she was a very normal average looking woman, neither outstandingly beautiful nor ugly. She was a overweight, again not saying this in an insulting way. The street term is “Big Beautiful Woman” aka BBW. I only describe her for the sake of the story. 

She explained the first part of her plan: I was to drop her off at the location in my vehicle. She was concerned that the target would recognize her car and foil this heist. To this day… I’m not sure why I didn’t question her more on the matter. For all intents and purposes this woman was an absolute stranger. Either way, she hopped in my truck, and we drove up a nearby hollow under the cover of night.

Here is where I probably need to start coming clean. Apparently, this wasn’t a true car heist. It was more of a privatized car repossession. Moira illuminated that she had sold this car to a woman, and the woman hadn’t paid her. Moira hadn’t signed the car over to the woman either and she was able to go to a dealership and order/receive a key. The only thing Moira needed was someone to drive her to the car and she would do the rest.

I have no idea if any of that was true. I’d never met the woman before. I’m pretty sure the first time I ever spoke to the woman was that night after the voicemail. But sometimes adventure calls and you’re already too deep to turn back. I followed her directions to a single-wide trailer. The car was in the driveway. “What if” scenarios played in my mind. The potential for shit to get real suddenly skyrocketed. It’s easier to romanticize adventure until you’re sneaking in the dark outside someone’s home stealing a car. That’s the problem about going with flow; you don’t know where you’ll end up. But if I may go on a brief tangent… you know what else goes with the flow? Shit. So maybe when you “go with the flow” you will find yourself in some shit. Come her for the stories… stay here for the lessons. Anyway…

I realized that I’d never really been afraid of being shot before.  The over/under wager that I’d die from a bullet was usually in my favor. I had not appreciated that fact as much as I should have. Sometimes you think adventure calls but it’s really adventure’s crazy cousin “recklessness.”

As quiet as a loud diesel pickup truck can be, which by the way is a very poor choice for stealth vehicle, I pulled in the gravel driveway with my lights off. Moira exited my truck and with the same amount of stealth my part of the operation offered, walked to… I guess her car now, started it and fled away. I followed her with a cautious eye on my rearview mirror.

With no issues we made it back to the dealership and celebrated. She thanked me and I told her it was no problem. And just like that my car stealing days were over. 

It was the last time I ever heard from Moira. Where ever she it I hope she is doing well. I hope that was her car. If it wasn’t her car… then this story is not true, it is not a confession, it is not legal binding, and I will deny it to the death.

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I'm DC. I'm on a creative journey. I write & publish comic books with XanCon Entertainment. You can check us out at www.xancononline.com or at GlobalComix  at https://globalcomix.com/a/xancon-entertainment/comics

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