The '59 El Camino was my pride and joy, a vintage gem that I'd poured endless hours into restoring. Every nut, every bolt—I knew every inch of that car like the back of my hand. One night, I was knee-deep in replacing the window regulator, using my cell phone as a makeshift flashlight from inside the door. It was on "do not disturb" mode so that I could concentrate on the installation and avoid having to do the same job twice.  

Once I had finished, I meticulously replaced all my tools to their designated homes at my workbench. But there was one item missing. My phone! I scoured my workspace trying to find my phone, but I could not find it. Even the Find My Phone feature showed it was in the garage, but I couldn't pinpoint its location. It was maddening; I knew I had it while working on the El Camino, but it seemed to have vanished into thin air. 

 Then came the moment during a leisurely drive when a strange alarm jolted me and pierced the nostalgic hum of my car's engine. Confused, I pulled over, and there it was—the sound was coming from inside the car. I struggled to locate it, given my less-than-perfect hearing, but I knew it was in there somewhere. 

Stopping at a nearby gas station, I embarked on a frantic hunt, following the ringing echo.  Sure enough, it was coming from inside my door!  With my handy Leatherman I was able to remove all the components and pull off the door panel.  There it was, nestled inside the bottom of the door.  Exactly where I had left it! The relief flooded over me, mixed with amusement at the absurdity of the situation. My beloved El Camino had not only taken my heart but had also taken my phone, creating quite an unexpected automotive adventure. 

As I sat amidst the scattered car parts, a strange thought crossed my mind. Maybe, just maybe, my beloved El Camino had grown a touch jealous. I smirked at the bizarre thought of my car harboring jealousy, but then a faint parallel struck me. The El Camino's longing for attention seemed oddly familiar, akin to the moments when my wife gently slips the phone from my fingers while on our date.  

It was a lighthearted revelation, imagining both of my vintage beauties sharing this bizarre, unexpected similarity. A chuckle escaped me as I promised to devote more exclusive time to both, albeit in their own distinct ways.  "Alright, old girl," I laughed, patting the car's dashboard affectionately. "I promise, from now on, you'll get some extra TLC. But you've got to promise me—no more hiding my phone!" 

It felt a bit ridiculous, making a deal with a car, but in that moment, amidst the scattered bits of metal and my own laughter at the situation, it felt like a fitting resolution. From that day forward, every time I worked on my El Camino, I was careful not to pull out my phone.  But I still couldn’t help and double-check my pockets whenever I finished, just in case she decided to pull off another disappearing act.