“F*** You, Tegan”: How a Stranger in a Parking Lot Knew My Name

We name these things. We talk to them. We defend them against anyone who dares call them what they are… which is usually “a mistake.” But they’re our mistakes, and that matters. Eventually, I blew the engine in the Caprice. Well, I blew it three times, actually. But after the third time,  it sat in my driveway for about a week before I sold it to a mechanic who dropped a new motor in it and flipped it. Somewhere in that timeline, I’d broken up with a girl. Let’s just say she didn’t take it well. She showed up in the middle of the night and etched her feelings into my door with something sharp… like a fountain pen with a diamond core drill bit. She was kind enough not to slash tires or bust windows. She just wanted to leave a sweet little message for psychotic posterity. But the thing about etching metal… it doesn’t buff out, or even fade. It just is…kind of forever. That car changed hands at least once, probably twice, and still carried her words. Still introduced me to strangers years later. The relationship lasted a few months. The inscription outlived it by years. My old police academy bro, Johnny, has a similar story… with a better ending. Johnny had a late ‘70s red GMC truck he called Red Dog. Old. Beat up. Loved. He worked on that thing constantly through our academy days, fixing it up piece by piece with whatever money a broke recruit could scrape together. Fast forward a decade or so. Divorce. And somehow, out of pure spite, his ex-wife ended up with Red Dog in the settlement. Certainly not because she wanted it. She just knew he did. Then one day, years later, Johnny’s walking through a parking lot and spots a truck that looks familiar, only green. He walked up to it, looked inside, and spotted some identifying marks… It was Red Dog. The hag had sold it. Someone painted it green. And there it sat conspicuously, gloriously, with a “For Sale” sign in the window. Johnny bought his Red Dog back and repainted it red. Fixed it up proper this time… because by now he was close to retirement and actually had some moola. Restored it to glory. Then the next time he went to pick up his kids from his ex-wife’s house? He pulled up in Red Dog. Didn’t say a word. Just watched her face as she came outside to see the kids off. Her expression was worth every penny. There’s something about the things we pour ourselves into when we’re young and broke. The cars, the trucks, the bikes. They become witnesses. They absorb the stories we’re too dumb to know we’re living at the time. And unlike people, they don’t lie. They don’t spin. They just hold the evidence. Red Dog got repainted, sold, repainted again… and still found his way home. My Caprice carried a woman’s fury across the city for years, introducing me to strangers I’ll never meet. The women left. The cars kept rolling. And somewhere out there, someone might still be explaining how they know my name. So, here’s to the beaters, the project cars, and the trucks held together by duct tape and stubbornness. They outlasted the relationships. They outlasted the drama. And sometimes, if you’re lucky, they come back to you. And if you’re not… someone might still make certain you’re never forgotten. — Tegan Broadwater spent 13 years with the Fort Worth Police Department, including two years assigned to the FBI working deep undercover inside a violent Crip organization. That operation, detailed in his book Life in the Fishbowl, resulted in 51 convictions. He has since founded Tactical Systems Network, an armed security & protection firm primarily staffed by veterans, is a creative writer and musician, and hosts The Tegan Broadwater Podcast. All book profits benefit children of incarcerated parents. Learn more at TeganBroadwater.com