CSI was here today...And this is my story.
I picked up my youngest son. His mom had his brother at a road trip soccer game almost an hour away. I was looking forward to getting some one-on-one time with him.
He wanted a Monster Burger. I very half-assedly tried to talk him out of ordering it. But then figured being the monster it is we could split it.
We got back to the apartment and I let us in. Immediately something felt off.
I went over to my desk (where I usually place my computer at the end of the day) and quickly noticed my cord was gone. I turned around and saw the PS3 was gone. Nothing but dust in its place under the TV.
He went into the bathroom to take a dump and I went into the bedroom. I saw my nightstand drawer overturned on my bed and the contents of it - some old journals, homemade cards from the boys etc. - sprawled across my bed. I came back out of the bedroom and scanned the room. All kinds of top dollar shit (bike, amp, stereo, TV) still in view. And then I noticed the back of the door.
I yelled out (silently in my head), "I've been fucking robbed!"
I went back over to the desk. Checkbook was still in plain sight. I was confused (and clearly not much of a crook because I couldn't for the life of me understand why who ever broke in chose to leave so many valuables). I would understand much later when the police arrive.
I snapped a few photos with my phone and headed over to the leasing office with my son. He asked questions about the "break in" while this here dad tried not to scream at the top of my lungs or cry in utter frustration on how violated I felt at the moment. I explained the situation and we headed back home trying to figure out what had happened. At first I thought the culprit came in through the window and then "broke" out the front door.
I told you I wasn't much of a criminal.
I dialed 911 and put in my call. An officer arrived a short time later to make a report.
"Looks like he kicked in the front door," he said.
"But there's so much shit he didn't take," I said pointing to my guitar, bass amp, bicycle, TV, stereo. "I don't get it."
"It has to fit in a backpack," he said.
It's was all starting to make sense now.
The officer asked for serial numbers none of which I had readily available. Sure I've got manuals, and hell, even the boxes the digital camera and PS3 came in. But no serial numbers.
"Most people don't have them," he said.
In an odd twist of events, he asked if I still skated as he looked at the skateboards littering the floor and hanging on the walls finishing up with a "street or vert?" question. I'm a musician too he said as he took pen tip to tongue before he asked what else had been stolen.
It was at that moment that I realized my fucking Mac laptop has been pinched. It's impossible to explain the feeling one has at that moment; the moment when you realize that the novel you've worked on for years, that the screenplay your were two thirds of the way through, that the years worth of short stories and poems penned, that the many photos of your children or your awesome iTunes library had just vanished from your world.
Gone.
And most likely forever.
And suddenly you want to cry. But you can't. No not in front of your son and not in front of a cop. You make a mental note to do that much later, like maybe when you are typing out a blog post... sniff.
He broke my concentration when he said, "What an awesome bachelor pad!" beforing turning to explain CSI would arrive soon to dust for prints.
This is my reality TV motherfuckers. Please change the channel.
CSI came in with their cameras and white gloves and explained how "easy" it is to kick in a door... and boy doesn't that just make you feel so much fucking safer?
They took photos, and my fingerprints, before explaining how to clean up the dust or whatever that black powder shit is they use to do their job. And then they were gone.
And that's it.
I'm left to dig through my stuff to see when was the last time I backed up my work on disc but I don't dare do that at the immediate moment for fear of the worst which I am currently unable to face or comprehend.
I'm not into guns and don't really consider myself a violent person. I'm much more pacifist anarchist than ten-knuckled thug but right now vigilante justice sounds downright gratifying.
There's no justice, it's just us.
