TFLAO (The First, Last and Only) is one of my three closest friends. Most people know him as Steve, but I’ve known him as TFLAO for more than four decades — the acronym is befitting. I met TFLAO when he stole my camera in high school.

In the beginning of my senior year, I was dating a reasonably normal young lady, living 90 miles away in Chicago. I say “reasonably normal” because she was dating me, and most folks would have deducted points for that.

It was a Saturday night, my car was parked in front of her parents’ house, and I was tortuously waiting for her to complete her “night on the town” preparations. I had just driven for an hour and a half, only to sit for an uncomfortable eternity, face-to-face across a narrow living room, with her glowering ironworker father. Why did all the pretty girls have massive fathers with bad attitudes?

Eventually she emerged dressed to the perfection that only a high school girl could (or would) create. She was a vision of beauty, ready to be seen and envied — with the ultimate purpose of sitting with me in a dark theater.

I had survived the stare down with her father (didn’t win, just survived) and we were on our way. I opened her door (we were still doing things like that in the 1960s) and realized my camera was missing. I had only intended to ring the doorbell, ask for my date and return to my car — not spend time without end watching her father’s neck veins pulse. I had failed to lock my doors and someone had stolen my prized Hanimex Praktica Nova IB, a great little 35-milimeter camera with a name that trips off the tongue.

I was furious. I just drove for an hour and a half, spent another who knows how long with Ivan the Terrible, and my camera gets stolen. However, I had a hot chick in my car on a Saturday night in Chicago, so I didn’t let it slow me down…too much. But I was still pretty mad about it.

Let’s talk about that car of mine. It was something — and that is as polite as anyone can be.

It was a 1960 Studebaker Lark, black with accenting rust tones. It had six cylinders (when they all worked), burned oil, belched undeterminable pollutants and struggled to maintain any speed above 60 miles per hour.

“Memorable” is the only good thing that can be said about the thing. What self-respecting thief would consider such a car to be a target worthy of his efforts?

Fate, the oddest of all forces, was working overtime that evening. At that moment in time, TFLAO and I did not know each other, but he did know my car (remember, that car was “memorable”).

Also, at that moment in time, we were both on the same block of the same street, in the same Chicago neighborhood, far from our respective homes. He saw the car, reasoned that no two people would have the same bad sense as to drive such a rolling pile of rust, and decided he wanted to meet me.

The car was unlocked, the camera was sitting invitingly on the front seat, and seconds later it was tucked securely under his arm as he continued his stroll down the street.

The following Monday morning, moments before class was to begin, a smiling stranger walked up to me and placed a Hanimex Praktica Nova IB on the desk in front of me and said, “Hi, I’m TFLAO and I stole your camera. Next time, lock your doors.”

That was the beginning of one very strange friendship.

 

Larry Wilson is a mostly lifelong resident of Niles. His optimistic “glass full to overflowing” view of life shapes his writing. His essays stem from experiences, compilations and recollections from friends and family. Wilson touts himself as “a dubiously licensed teller of tall tales, sworn to uphold the precept of ‘It’s my story; that’s the way I’m telling it.’” He can be reached at wflw@hotmail.com.