"Pat's Towing Service," she said.

The lady buying her morning coffee confirmed that with a nod. She turned out to be very helpful--she had been towed several times herself. She told me how to go about retrieving my car and even gave me a lift to the T-stop.

My first task was to find the police station in Central Square. This is not exactly the time in Cambridge to stand in the middle of a crowded intersection and ask, "Where's the nearest police station?" So I had to wander around for a little while before found it.

Recently dispossessed car owners were lined up in front of the "Towing Services" window. The one woman left in front of me by the time I reached the window was visibly distressed. She had been going back and forth from her home and the police station (by foot of course) because she did not know her license plate number and other vital information.

I panicked for a second time; I know my I.D. number and my PAC code, but not my plate number. I suddenly saw the value of personalized license plates. "IM STUPID" would be perfect.

But luckily for me, I'm not that dumb--I had my insurance card with me. The police officer behind the bullet-proof glass window handed me a pink slip and told me that "Pat's Towing Service" was just a straight walk down the street--straight and straight and straight. It was in Somerville. Past Inman Square. (I always wondered where that was.) Past about 12 car repair shops, each of which made me think that I was close to my destination.

I thought "Pat's Towing Service" would be a big parking lot with hundreds of impounded cars stretching all the way to Framingham. But the reality was even scarier. The towing operation is housed in a very gothic-looking brick building that looks like something out of "The Munsters. "The interior of the building is dark and oily. Broken down and smashed automobiles line the entry. And then you meet "Pat."

With this Pat, there is no question of gender as with that "Saturday Night Live" skit. This Pat is certainly a man--a large, hairy man in a tank top sitting behind a desk guarded by an equally large and hairy German shepherd. He takes your money, gives you a municipal ticket and sends you on your way. He doesn't speak. He doesn't even tell you where your car is. You just have to wander through the bowels of the garage looking for it.

Nor does Pat clue you in on how he got into your car to put down your emergency brake, tune the radio to WAAF, the heavy metal station, and catalogue all your belongings (all the way down to the half-empty bag of chips and spilled lemonade under the passenger's seat) for the official record on the back of your receipt.

I was too startled even to ask the man for directions. I just started driving, and through some act of divine grace, I ended up back in the Quad. The parking space that I had been towed from, which is the closest one to civilization within the free parking zone, was still available.

I parked on the other side of the street.

Mark her words, Beth L. Pinsker '93 will be moving her car on October 27 at 7:45 a.m.