Fast cars & bad boys

Santa Cruz California, 1987--my boyfriend Aaron called me from work and asked if I had his car. I assured him I didn't (I had my own), and he assured me that his was not parked outside the restaurant where he left it (India Joze, for those who'll appreciate the reference). Immediately after I hung up the phone, this is what happened:

I had the idea I could find the car, so I grabbed my keys, climbed into my '64 Dodge Dart and started it up. And as I pulled onto the street, just like that, Aaron's Toyota hatchback zipped right past me. With no time to process this most unusual occurrence, I put the pedal to the metal and took off after the little white car. Now here's where I'd like to unleash the part of the story where a wild chase ensued, but in reality it was just me, traveling at average speed, trying to catch a glimpse of the driver who was seemingly unaware I was in hot pursuit.

With no obvious destination, the hijacked car darted in and around side streets, and as I carefully watched the needle on my gas gage approach empty, I continued to follow closely behind. Then suddenly, the mystery driver of my boyfriend's wheels took off, and when it got too fast for me to safely keep up, I pulled over, called 911 and reported the incident. I don't remember what happened next, maybe I went home, but more likely I went straight to the restaurant to tell Aaron my amazing tale.

Two days later, the stolen car was pulled over by police and the thief, a 15-year-old runaway boy, was apprehended. The interior was a mess, the engine shot, and in the back seat was a thick wool blanket, a pack of condoms, and a paperback copy of The Outsiders.

No charges were filed.