A Personal Reflection

I arrived at the intersection in a silver 1969 Firebird — the kind with attitude and speed, a low rumble and no patience for indecision. I made a hard right turn — not just to turn, but to cross the street entirely and pull headfirst into a parking space.

Clean.

Decisive.

Mine.

I stepped out and walked south along the sidewalk, entering a house. It was late in the day - when light lingers but begins to loosen its grip on the day.

When I returned, the Firebird was gone.

Gone.

Not “misplaced” gone.

Gone.

I stood there staring at the empty space as though the force of my will might reverse physics.

Then I saw it.

Catty-corner from where I stood sat an old black-and-white police car — station wagon style, small wings on the back like my grandmother’s 1960 pink Chevy Impala. Across the street stood Continental Athletic Supply - the place I worked in high school, now long closed.

Memories quickly past through my mind before I returned to the here-and-now.

Still looking in the direction of the police car, I motioned for it to come over.

It hesitated.

I motioned again. Clearly this officer required assistance.

As I stepped off the curb, the police car edged toward me slowly.

As it approached, details sharpened. Gray hair, long on top and combed back, short on the sides. Wire-rimmed glasses. Crisp white short-sleeved shirt, pressed immaculately. Tall posture. Square face. Blue eyes.

Too neat.

Too polished.

And then - click.

Not a cop.

The realization arrived whole and unmistakable: You’re in trouble.

He had been watching my car. Watching me. Authority worn like a costume — convincing at a distance, flimsy up close.

And in that split second, I understood something else - He knew I knew.

Without confrontation, without theatrics, he executed a swift circular turn and sped west out of town on Colusa Highway, disappearing as suddenly as he had appeared.

No speech.

No siren.

No chase scene.

Just… exposed.

I stood there, oddly calm.

Not shaken.

Impressed.

Apparently, I take in details under pressure. I could have filed a police report.

Why had I noticed all these details? He wasn’t someone I had seen in town before.

Where did my car go? Did he have something to do with its disappearance?

Was anything else taken? Nothing.

What was revealed? Everything!

You see, this turned out to be a dream about discernment with a sense of humor.

The Firebird represented momentum. Direction. A little bit of swagger.

The intersection - choice.

The disappearance - a brief test.

And the imposter cop? False authority. Illusion. Performance.

Somewhere in my subconscious, I run background checks.

The interesting part isn’t that something went missing.

It’s that I saw through the disguise before damage was done.

Even when memory and imagination collaborate, even when authority arrives in costume, even when something familiar vanishes without warning - I remain observant.

And perhaps just slightly amused.

I did have to go outside and check to see where my car was. She sat right where she belonged shining brightly in the moonlight.