A story making the rounds of seniors has reached me through an uncle, Marquitos Roces, a regular conveyor of such things,  and I am thankful for both the laughter and the warning it has brought, and wish now to share it more widely here.—Chit Roces

Several days ago as I left a meeting at our church, I desperately gave myself a personal TSA pat-down.  I was looking for my keys.  They were not in my pockets.  A quick search in the meeting room revealed nothing.  Suddenly I realized I must have left them in the car.

Frantically, I headed for the parking lot.  My wife, Isabel, has scolded me many times for leaving the keys in the ignition.  My theory is the ignition is the best place not to lose them.  Her theory is that the car will be stolen.

As I burst through the doors of the church, I came to a terrifying conclusion.  Her theory was right.  The parking lot was empty.  I immediately call the police.  I gave them my location, confessed that I had left my keys in the car, and that it had been stolen.

Then I made the most difficult call of all. “Honey,” I stammered.  I always call her “honey” in times like these.  “I left my keys in the car, and it’s been stolen.”

There was a period of silence.  I thought the call had been dropped, but then I heard Isabel’s voice: “Tito,” she barked, “I dropped you off!”

Now it was my time to be silent.  Embarrassed, I said, “Well, come and get me.”

Isabel retorted, “I will, as soon as I convince this policeman I have not stolen your car!”