I Can’t Prove It, but Tyra Banks Ate My Toyota Prius
So listen, it was last Tuesday at 1:02pm. I'm halfway back from my lunch break at Jamba Juice and seriously need to take a leak. The coast is clear so I park my Toyota Prius streetside next to Buckingham Fountain and take a full-bladder, eyes-closed, swaying-slightly kind of piss into the basin aiming the parabola at a particular horse statue I’d selected.
I zip up my fly, turn around, and discover that not only is my Toyota Prius nowhere to be seen, but Tyra Banks is standing on the curb, a pair of red plastic reading glasses pushed above her hairline. She’s dressed in a heavily shouldered purple blazer, jack-o-lantern tights, and black Air Forces. One arm is behind her back, and the other is carrying a cheap drawstring backpack with “Hot Chocolate Run 5K” printed on it, the logo slightly cracked from washing. She won't look me in the eye.
I don't want to jump to conclusions. After all, this is global supermodel Tyra Banks. A Toyota Prius is a mid-sized vehicle. So I scan the perimeter casually and ask if anyone's seen my Toyota Prius. Of course there's no one around except for Tyra. She just goes "hmmm." A few seconds later, I find my probable cause: a tennis ball-sized grease stain on the lapel of her blazer. I cross my arms, turn on my best scolding Nigel Barker and say, "TYRA, did you — " and she immediately cuts me off by saying "I love this fountain." Won't look at it though. Just staring at a pigeon. I lower my gaze slightly, and I don't know how I missed it, but there are tire tracks leading directly into her mouth.
Just then, she scratches her nose and I see what she’s been hiding behind her back. A side mirror, held by the stem at her side like a purse. I say "is that my side mirror…" and Tyra looks at it like she's never seen it before in her life. She murmurs, "that's crazy" and tosses it into the fountain with both hands, underhand, like a bowling ball. That’s when I notice there's a parking ticket on the ground where my Prius used to be. The ticket is made out to me. I don't know at what point in this process a meter maid made the judgment call to ticket my car rather than intervene. All I can think is: Did this cunt get me a ticket before she ate my car?!
Suddenly, Tyra shrugs off her drawstring bag and extracts, with some effort, a composition notebook. She writes something, tears the page out, and presents it to me with both hands: "I MUST MAKE A CALL." The S in MUST is drawn the way every sixth grader draws an S — two interlocking diamonds, a little shadow on the left side.
A bus drives by and for a second, the wind catches her blazer so I can see what’s underneath. One, she's wearing a referee jersey. (This doesn’t surprise me. Everyone knows she’s been moonlighting in the league for years.) But two, her stomach is the exact silhouette of a 2012 Toyota Prius Hybrid Four. Before I can react, she helps herself to my phone and starts dialing from memory, all seven digits, no hesitation. The other end picks up immediately and I can hear her whisper, "I'm gonna be late to the game. Got caught up in something." She shims a sesame seed out of her teeth and hangs up. Instead of returning my phone she keeps fiddling with it. I ask for it back several times. She doesn’t respond. Then — I SWEAR TO GOD — she swivels around, moons me, and yells "gotta run, bitch", flinging my phone into the grass. I watch as she enters the fountain at full sprint before cutting across the park, into the street, and down Michigan Avenue until I can't see her anymore.
Finally, I pick up my phone. Tyra Banks drained my battery down to 12%. She had downloaded Doodle Jump, failed level one, and closed the app. She had also left 12 tabs open on Safari that were all Google Maps, all showing directions to Buckingham Fountain.
It's now 1:09pm. I walk back to Jamba Juice and order another Mango-a-go-go. I have to pee again.