Who Stole My Battery?

by Lorraine Kaul

I’m often surprised at the silly and sentimental little incidents from my past that stay with me. I can be in full concentration mode, on a project, or even reading an interesting article, and find my attention drifting into long-forgotten events. My mind monkeys then seem to go on an archeological dig to unearth memorable treasures.

One evening, in my Freshman year in college, my brother, Warren, two years my senior, whom I will describe as having few to no boundaries and barely an ounce of emotional regulation, came crashing into my bedroom, ecstatic to share with me his exciting news. He roared; I found a buyer for my car! This news was a big deal because he had had his eye on another car for some time. With the sale of his car and the money he had saved, he could buy his dream car. I thought he'd be exchanging one junk heap for another, but he had a different perspective.

The potential buyers agreed to come to look at the car the next day. I feigned interest in his news and responded, That’s great! I cautioned him, however, with one of my mother’s idioms. Remember, don't count your chickens before they hatch.

I then told him to leave my room and knock the next time. That was the extent of my supportive sister capabilities.

After he left, I became interested in his potential car sale. I remembered that he had just bought a new battery for the car he was about to sell. Knowing that my car’s battery was old and corroded and had very little life left, I conjured a plan where both my brother and I could benefit from this sale.

I woke early the following day, knowing he would sleep in on Saturday. I grabbed my channel lock pliers and slipped out, quietly raised the hood of his car and expeditiously removed his car’s battery, brought it back to my bedroom, and crammed both the tool and battery under my bed. I figured anyone who wanted to buy his car would not refuse the opportunity because of a missing battery. I had no money for a new battery. If the buyer could afford a car, they could afford to spring for a battery.

I was again in my room working on school papers that afternoon when the potential buyers arrived. Warren was in full fluff car salesman mode.

I could hear his charismatic greeting as he talked about the car's merits and reason for selling. Then the voices faded, and I could only hear muffled sounds. It seemed all was going well when Warren came unexpectedly crashing into my room again. His face was beet red this time, with purple blood veins pulsating from his temples; in his unregulated emotional tantrum, Warren raised and shook his arms and hands in a hell-fired rage. He struggled to muffle the volcanic shriek trying to erupt from his fuming lungs, fearing the buyers would hear. Someone stole my battery, he bellowed.

I, in full supportive sister mode, said in surprise, Really? How could anyone do that without us hearing it? Then still in the caring sister role, I asked, when did you last start your car? I was talking as if it was a question leading to an investigation. He said, yesterday! I said, well, go out there and apologize and tell them you are sorry but don't offer to buy the battery.

Whatever he worked out, they left, came back with a battery, and started the car, and I believe they drove it a short distance, and the vehicle sold. Warren calmed down. I returned to my room and peeked under the bed to glimpse my gift, a brand-new battery!

Now I marvel at how this unearthed silly and sentimental memory is a prized treasure.