I picked up my vehicle from the auto body shop today. I needed my driver side back door buffed out because I scraped it on one of the columns in the parking garage of the Cosmopolitan. I was in a hurry to get to call and I didn’t want my booker to be irritated that I was running behind. I pulled in too quickly and was too close.

I did that almost exactly two years ago.

I want to get a new lease, so I just needed them to buff it out, so I don’t incur a huge cost when I bring them my current one.

Yesterday, I took my house key off from the key ring, and when I got back in my car today to put it back on, I dropped it and it fell between my seat and the center console.

“Fuck!” is of course the appropriate response to when this happens.

I looked down, hoping I could see it, but the sound it made, sounded like it hit the bottom. I couldn’t see it. I then proceeded to move my seat back and forth numerous times trying to feel for it. I lifted up the mats, removed paid parking tickets, started sweating. No luck.

“Where the fuck is this key?” I thought. “I know it fell down here.”

More scrambling. More sweating. More frustration.

I know because of the sound it made, it hit the metal at the bottom. “It must be in a place I can’t see,” I processed.

I feel around. Nothing.

Finally, after a few more occurrences of me moving the seat from front to back, from the back, I wedge my hand underneath and I feel the key! But it’s caught in the plastic covering of the bottom of the seat. I can wedge my forefinger and middle finger around the key, I try to pull it out, but it’s stuck!


More sweating.

Finally, one of the repair guys asks what the problem is.

I tell him. He asks me to move out of the way, probably thinking he’s going to reach down and get it immediately. “Helpless, girl,” my projection of him is thinking.

He reaches underneath, I explain where it is. Then he feels it.

“Ohhh,” he says.

“Yeah, in the worst possible place, right?”

I run my fingers through my hair; it’s damp, I’ve been sweating that much. I lightly run my finger underneath my eyes, my mascara ran a little.

Another repair guy asks the first “Qué pasó?”

The first replied back in Spanish, I heard the word “casa,” which means house.

“House key, huh?” the second guy asks.

“Yes,” I grudgingly answer.

They both try to reach for it and try to wedge it out with their hands. Doesn’t work.

“You don’t keep it on a key ring?” the second guy asks.

“I usually do, I have it with my car key, but I took it off yesterday when I left my car here.”


It was wedged so perfectly in this plastic molding that they had to unbolt the seat to get to it.

I went to my passenger’s side seat to where my purse was and grabbed two five dollar bills, and my cell phone in the back.

I text my friend who kindly picked me up yesterday and today, what happened.

“That is extremely unlucky,” he texts. “At least that didn’t happen somewhere else.”

“I would have had a breakdown,” I reply.

I probably would have. The first guy offered help probably just a minute before I would have started really cursing everyone.

The guys finished bolting my seat back into place.

“Thank you so much!” I said. I handed the second man a five, he took it, and thanked me.

The first guy wouldn’t take it. “No, that’s okay.”

“No, please take it. I really appreciate your help.”

“No, no,” he refused again. “Give it to him.”

I tried to hand it off to him again, I was about ready to shove the five in his pocket, which he probably would have enjoyed more. I looked around and found a parking pole to set it on.

“I’ll leave it here,” I said, quickly setting the five down, and jumped into my car before he could try to give it back to me.

“Thank you,” I said again before I drove away.

What an eventful Tuesday, just to pick up my vehicle.

I typed this all on my phone as I’m getting a manicure and pedicure. I got a tiny cut on my finger trying to wedge out my key. Not a significant cut, but enough that the nail polish remover stings.