Once upon a time, I was a teenager. I know, this is hard to believe, but it’s true. I had some very good friends who lived nearby, and we used to hang out at their place a great deal, so we were close to the whole family.
So, one summer, Elder Sister is granted an exchange program at college. She is to spend the whole summer in Spain, which she enjoyed immensely. During her trip, we occasionally made use of her car, which of course, could not join her in Spain. Her much beloved, darling baby-blue Grand Prix.
Now the evening before her return from Spain, we were all hanging out in their basement bedroom, with the casements wide open. The windows that looked out onto the driveway, where the Monte was parked (this is important). So in the course of the evening, playing cards and possibly indulging in substances we were not supposed to be, the Cricket appeared.
Five teenage girls scatter for high ground. BIG FUCKIN BUG. Now L, my friend, sister of She Who Owned A Car But Was In Spain grabbed her sneaker and dove after it once she got over the shock.
Now, I yelled at her to not kill the cricket. For crickets are annoying, but known to be Lucky Bugs. So one should never ever kill a cricket, because it’s really bad luck, and we should catch it and *SMACK* oh shit.
I was laughed at, and eventually we all kinda crashed in our assorted usual sprawls, still with the windows propped wide open to sleep the sleep of teens, AKA our daily dose of coma.
We wake the next day, one by one, and groggily go “whuuuuu?” when someone (I think it was my sister) mentions that there’s an AWFUL lot of light in the basement and goes to shut the window so the blinds can be lowered, to block the blinding OW.
And she notices the car is MIA. Gone. Oh shit.
Those of us who can, flee and take cover in deep deep bunkers, for we rightfully fear the wrath of She Who Has Been In Spain And Has Now Had Her Car Stolen Right Out Of The Driveway We Were Sleeping Next To. Police were called reports filed, mass hysteria ensued. This is NYC. Stolen cars are very rarely recovered. We expect we’ll never see The Grand Prix again.
Once the furor had died down, (about a week later) we were once again all assembled in the basement. Another cricket suddenly leaps into the spotlight of center floor, and all but does a Michigan J Frog to insure it has our full attention.
Looks fly across the room. Assorted shrugs happen, but nobody is willing to risk it. A plastic container is fumbled to the fore, and we carefully CATCH this one, and release it outside into the roses. After a few more hands of Gin Rummy, we all spilt for our assorted domiciles.
The next day the police called. They found the car.
It had been columnized, and the trunk lock was knocked out, but otherwise, it was in perfect shape. Police figured it’d been taken for a joyride, then dumped less than fifteen minutes away.
None of us ever killed a cricket again.
