Dude, where’s my car?

On the Friday after Thanksgiving, I drove to D.C. for the weekend.

I like to make a joke that while everyone is at the mall on Black Friday, I’m at the National Mall, a one-and-a-half mile stretch of museums. After circling around the Washington Monument, I found a spot along Jefferson Avenue, precariously close, but not at, a handicapped spot. I was parked next to a museum with a flagpole waving a 4-H flag.



Of course, I went to the farthest museum. The National Gallery of Art, East Building, to see an Impressionist exhibit. I was walking around in the museum for so long the paintings looked blurry.

That’s an Impressionist joke. Around 5 o’clock, I walked back to my car, or, rather, the spot near the handicapped spot. It wasn’t there.

I deduced that I parked too close to the handicapped sign and called the Non-Emergency Police number. When I gave the operator my license plate number she said, “We don’t have a record of it being towed. It might have been stolen.

” Dunt Dunt Da! Cue the dramatic sound effects. The non-emergency response operator called 911 and soon two police officers were dispatched to meet with me. I pointed and said, “I parked here next to the handicapped sign.

” Then, I pointed to the now-barren flagpole, and said, “They must have taken the flag down.” The dark-haired cop said, “They usually leave them up.” I said, “There was a 4-H flag waving on there earlier, but I parked next to this handicapped sign, but not so close that I sho.