She opens the door and gets in. I (with my head dropped to the steering wheel) say, “sorry, you’ve got the wrong car.”
That was precisely what happened to my dad O”H one late night after work. He had driven as he always did to the main Post Office in Brooklyn, that was open very late at night. he left my mom in the car, and then when he came back, got into the car, and could not understand why the key wouldn’t work after several frustrating tries. He looked up at my mom, only to discover he was sitting next to a black woman, who said, “Mister, you is in da wrong car!” (sorry if I am not being politically correct). He had gone into the identical looking car that was parked directly in front of his, and what is really hysterical, is that he never noticed it was not my mom in the car with him.