Towed! or Whitey's big adventure

A good day, a busy day, we both thought we deserved a treat as we headed for home up Houston's lower Westheimer. That’s easy to accomplish. Lower Westheimer is a food Mecca. Where? What kind?  French, Italian, Italian, Italian, Indian, eat-the-whole pig, middle Eastern, eat! Eat! Eat.

And so we decided to grab a bit. We picked a favorite, wheeled around the corner to the parking lot, but wait! A lovely spring evening, a gentle breeze, big trees gently waving, twilight falling in. "Know what, let's park around the block on the street and stroll around. And so we did.

Bet you can guess the rest of this story.

We saw cars parked curbside in the beautiful 300 block of Avondale. Looked good. "Oops," said Bob, pointing at a dim barely visible sign. "No parking from here to the corner." So we backed up and found a nice place midblock. After our pleasant saunter, we sat by a window to watch the cars go by and ordered rissoto with sauted sow belly. Lovely, but small.

We been so good lately, we decided, let's indulge. "One nutella sundae and two spoons please." The waiter was prompt, friendly, and full of chat. We enjoyed, and  then headed back through the pleasant evening to the car.

Just as we turned the corner Bob stopped, frozen his posture that of a fox who has just heard the first bay of the hounds. I could feel the fur rising on his back.

"The Jeep is being towed! I just saw it go down the street." It was one of those moments lost in time, never ending.

"A Jeep is being towed. You know it's not ours. We didn't do anything to get it towed," says the chipper eternal optimist—me.

"A Jeep with a luggage rack and a bike rack on the back?"

We both broke in to the trot of two foxes when the hounds are getting close. We turned the corner.

No Whitey. (Not a really original name for a white Jeep, but there you are.)

That's when we read the sign more closely. True, it said no parking to the corner, but it also warned that cars parked between the signs (yes, there was another one) without a resident permit would be towed. It meant it.

Fortunately, the restaurant is only about a mile from our house, so, after I warned Bob that I was not in walking shoes and no more sprinting, we headed home.   Bob remembered that there is a neighborhood Houston Police Station on the way. Guilty as can be, we might as well 'fess up and find out how to find Whitey. What a nice policeman!

First, he told us that every time he works that station seemed like someone comes in and complained about getting towed off Avondale. Then, he asked us our license number. Dumbstruck. We both were dumbstruck. We looked at each other. I did a mental struggle and came up with the first three letters. The fellow laughed.

"Looks like she expects you to finish it." Bob shrugged.

"Well, you'll need the license number or the vehicle identification number to get it back."  Oh yeah. Then he went on, "I can't remember mine either, so I took a picture of it on my I-phone." Good idea, after the fact.

As soon as we walked in, took off our shoes, and had a drink of water, Bob grabbed the "paid bill folder" and started flipping. Before long he had it--the license renewal form with both numbers. 'Course neither of us will ever forget that license number again. After some deacceleration, our hearts were still pounding, off to bed. Even with the license number the nice woman on the phone told Bob after a 10 minute wait and a scare when she said Whitey wasn't in the system, it's four hours before they can tell you where the car is.

We found him. Not to far, but too far to walk. As soon as rush hour was over, Bob called a cab and set off on the rescue mission. There was Whitey, lonely among the other cars with miscreant owner. A mere $238 (that's not counting the taxi) later, Whitey brought the penitent Bob home.

Whitey's now happy in the driveway and Bob and I are resigned to valet parking and separating our strolling from our dining.