By Don C. Reed
Everything seemed normal that Saturday,4:30 AM, November 10th, 2018.
I stepped out of the shower into my gym’s locker room. Dry, dressed, and comfortable, I took out my gymbag, shook it as I always do—no jingle. I tried again, nothing, I fumbled in it—the keys were gone.
Maybe I had left them in the car? But no, that was missing too.
Gloria told me, quick, run home– don’t let the robber steal anything else! (If he had my driver’s license, he knew where I lived.) Running toward a robber did not seem a particularly sensible idea, plus home was six miles away; but as I am more scared of my wife than the burglar, I took off in my old man’s shuffle.
No robbers were at home when I arrived, fortunately.
However… by the time I telephoned the credit card company, the thief had already rung up roughly $600 in fraudulent charges. I cancelled the card, and ordered a new one.
Replacing the car would not be so easy. We did have insurance for it, but it was eleven years old. I doubted we would get enough to replace a still-smoothly-running Honda.
Fremont officer Mike Paiva came to our house and was very thoughtful and thorough in his questioning.
But I had little hope, figuring the car was probably already taken apart, stripped for parts. Apparently Hondas are popular thievery targets, not only because they are well-made, but also because their parts are not updated as often as others, and so are interchangeable.
My wallet had family pictures, including the wedding day photo of my sister Patty, who died of leukemia. I have no copy of it.
Still, there had been no violence; our lives had not been stolen.
But imagine how we felt 5:00 next morning, when the doorbell rang. We had told the police that we got up before sunrise, so it was not a shock when two of Fremont’s finest knocked on our door—but to hear their news—they had my car!
At the daily police briefing, the officers had been told to watch for a stolen car with an unusual license plate.
Officer Mike Calvin was driving by a nearly deserted gas station in my home town, when he spotted my car. He pulled into the parking lot by the station’s little store.
Visible through the window was a single “customer”. He looked up, saw the officer. Their eyes locked. Then he turned and bolted into the bathroom. When he came out, acting as if nothing had happened, the policeman apprehended him.
When backup arrived, the restroom was searched. And there in the trashbin was a set of car keys, with a Christopher Reeve keychain medallion, in a “Go Forward” design, to honor the paralyzed movie Superman.
Inside my car was a Phillips-head screwdriver, some screws– and a different license plate. The idea, apparently, was to switch plates, after which the car would be unrecognizable as mine. I believe there was also video of the person driving my car into the station.
The suspect, I understand, was on parole for a similar offense. But that is up to the courts. I tried to recover my wallet, but that was apparently tossed.
But my car was back!
So what is the stem cell connection to all this?
I have a special license plate. The vehicle was recognized and rescued, by the (phonetic spelling) of STEM CELL ONE… on my license plate.
And that, dear friends, is how stem cell research saved my car.
Don C. Reed
http://www.stemcellbattles.net (sign up for my free newsletter!)
Don Reed is author of the new book, “CALIFORNIA CURES! How the California Stem Cell Program is Fighting Your Incurable Disease!” available now at http://bit.ly/californiacures. For a 20% discount, use code “WSPY2PP20”!
Reed is also Vice President of Public Policy for Americans for Cures Foundation; opinions voiced here as an individual may or may not reflect tose of the Foundation.