One of my early discoveries as a newly minted city slicker was that nothing relaxed me at the end of a long, futile day of job hunting the way that a heaping, steaming plate of spaghetti did. Some might enjoy a day-ending bath or listening to meditation recordings. Me, I ate spaghetti. I’d make a big show of it, too, inserting a napkin into my shirt collar and everything. Then I’d wolf down two, sometimes three plates of the stuff, along with half a loaf of bread. I’d chase it with a glass of cold milk. Afterwards, I’d yank the napkin out of my collar, then spread out on the futon and rub my swollen belly, feeling the waves of “Old World Style” Ragu-induced contentment radiating through me.

One night after an especially trying day, I went to the local supermarket to pick up my spaghetti-making materials. During checkout, I opened my wallet and discovered that I was a few dollars short. I panicked and handed the cashier my credit card, instructing her to go ahead and run it, though I knew it wouldn’t take. The cashier was in her late 40’s, with kind, gray eyes. She reminded me of my mother. When my card was declined, I said, “You remind me of my mother.”

She told me that was a sweet thing for me to say. I suppose I was hoping that she’d do something motherly, and save me somehow. But she went ahead and paged the store manager anyway. He arrived a few minutes later with a huge ring of keys that looked like something the Town Jailer in a cowboy movie might carry. He inserted one of the keys into the register, and by doing so removed the bread loaf and the quart of milk from my bill. I must have been looking especially low after this transaction, because as I was leaving the cashier shouted after me, “I hope things turn around for you!” Then she frowned and corrected herself. “What I meant to say was, everything is going to be fine.”

I thanked her, then exited through the pneumatic doors.

The spaghetti that night wasn’t great. All I could think about was the missing bread and the milk. The meal wasn’t the same without those two ingredients. The self-pity I felt that night was overwhelming. Halfway through the meal, it dawned on me that I’d subconsciously positioned my chair so that I was facing directly into one of the corners of the apartment. It was as if I was punishing myself for something. All I needed was the pointy dunce cap on my head.

I put down my fork and wiped my mouth. I turned around in my chair. All I could see in the tiny apartment were all the goddamned foolish purchases I’d made since arriving in Chicago. There was the Contra III: The Alien Wars cartridge for the Super Nintendo ($69.99). Over there was my copy of The New Joy of Sex ($24.99). And there was the iconic torchier lamp ($39.99) which looked like something that Zeus himself would have been glad to have as a decoration in his apartment on Mount Olympus. Because of its top-heavy design and white-hot 300-watt halogen bulb, the torchier would soon become famous for starting fires in dorm rooms and small apartments everywhere.

Yet the biggest albatross of all, far bigger than a video-game or a sex manual, was the Subaru. It was out there at that very moment, parked on a side street in the dark and—last I’d checked—completely covered in bird shit. It was the Subaru that was slowing eating away at my bank account. I’d considered the car my last resort. If everything went wrong, and I ran out of money, I could always throw everything into the backseat and drive the car back East. Knowing that the car was out there, ready to go, 24 hours a day, that all of this could be over with the simple turn of the starter key, made me feel less claustrophobic here.

But the Subaru obviously wasn’t doing me any favors. In fact, if anything, it was the Subaru that was holding me back. I understood what had to be done. I dumped my spaghetti dish into the kitchen sink, put on my shoes and jacket, and grabbed a garbage bag. I went down to the street and cleaned all of the trash out of the car. Then I came back upstairs and phoned the Chicago Reader, the city’s free newspaper, which I read religiously each week, mostly because it featured Lynda Barry’s terrific comic strips. I placed an ad for an ’89 Subaru for sale—$1,200 or B.O.

The first guy to come look at it was named Dan. He had slicked back hair and wore a puffy black parka. He kept his lefthand buried in one of the parka’s side pockets, which made me worry that he had a gun. Dan popped the hood with one hand and looked things over. I knew almost nothing about cars, but I didn’t want Dan to take me for a simp, so I leaned over the engine with him and affected a concerned look. Then Dan closed the hood and said, “Let’s take her out for a test drive. You do the driving.”

I got behind the wheel, and as I pulled out of the parking spot, which was one of the five-star parking spots in the neighborhood, I said a prayer in the name of the spot still being there when we returned. “Take her out onto Lakeshore Drive,” Dan said. “I want to see what this baby can do.”

I didn’t like Dan. I didn’t like the way he referred to my car as “baby.” As I stepped on the gas and pulled into traffic, I reminded myself that this was just a piece of business, that this was only a car, that sentiment shouldn’t come into play here. But there was sentiment. That car and I had been through a lot together. We’d driven through some of the worst Midwestern blizzards on record, and we’d come out OK on the other side. Dan opened the glove box and worked the windows. He checked the cigarette lighter to make sure it was functional. I think he was about to make me an offer when the car’s hood, which hadn’t been re-latched properly after we’d peered at the engine, caught the wind. In bumper to bumper afternoon traffic, the hood flew open, obscuring the front windshield.

Dan and I both screamed. It’s embarrassing to admit this, but of the two of us, Dan was the one to collect himself first. He told me to calm down, and to slow down, and to just keep driving straight. He told me to put on the car’s hazard lights. “Everything is going to be fine,” he kept saying over and over. Eventually we were able to blindly make our way to the side of the road. Dan got out of the car and closed the hood, making a big show of latching it properly this time.

We drove back to the parking spot. Naturally, it was gone. Dan had gone white. He finally pulled his left hand from his parka, revealing not a gun but a pack of cigarettes. His hands shook as he put one into his mouth, and with the Subaru’s functioning cigarette lighter, he lit it up. “I’m going to have to take a pass on the car, dude,” Dan said. Then he got out and walked off down the street on unsteady legs, sucking down the cigarette. Once he was gone, I drove around for an hour, looking for another parking space, while dreaming about the vast quantities of spaghetti I’d eat when I got back to my place.

The second person to come look at the car was a guy named Terry. He had well-groomed beard and a tiny gold pirate earring in his ear. Terry and I peered under the hood for a few minutes. Then Terry requested a test-drive. I didn’t want to lose my parking spot again, so I did something that, looking back, is one of the most foolish things I’ve ever done. I gave Terry the keys and told him to take the car out by himself.

It took a few moments for me to realize what I’d done here. Once the Subaru’s taillights vanished around the corner at the end of the street, I felt a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. The street went quiet. A plastic bag caught in the branches of a nearby tree hissed in the wind.

I tried not to think about the fact that I’d gladly just given my car keys to a complete stranger and allowed him to drive off in my car. I imagined the chortles I’d get from the policemen when I told them the story. “So, let’s go over this again,” they’d say, “starting with the part where you gave the guy the keys.” My father would never be able to forgive me for this.

I stood there, alone as I’ve ever been in my life, peering at my watch, counting the minutes, hoping that Terry would bring my car back to me.