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And then, the bass drum I�d been carting around in the backseat for a week. Also not there.
I walked back into Jenn�s apartment, breathing strangely and trying to form a complete sentence. She ran back out to the car with me, and we stood there awhile in something approaching shock: a lot of
I called the police and they said they�d send someone over. I remained reasonably calm. My brother called. He�d been in Grinnell and was coming through town, wanted to drop some stuff off. I told him to swing by Jenn�s. The three of us stood outside. The weather was beautiful. We talked and laughed, my brother and I made stupid jokes. (�It�s too bad you didn�t leave a Dashboard Confessional CD on the dashboard,� he said. �Then we�d know who did it.�) My sense of humor was returning, which is good, since it�s my main defense mechanism in times of crisis. And from a very early point on, I was already putting everything in perspective, even better than Jenn, who was crying for blood, as she tends to do: At least I�m not hurt, I thought. At least the car�s still there, and undamaged. At least my apartment wasn�t broken into. At least my computer, that other four-digit exhibit of my creative and intellectual hubris, hasn�t been stolen.
My brother eventually left; he had to be back at Knox. The police showed up. The officer was a nondescript, middle-aged guy who took his time looking the car over, looking for prints, etc. He asked if maybe the CD player�s faceplate was still in the car, under the seat, or something. I looked under the driver�s seat. Yup, there it was. Those bastards. They couldn�t get the CD player out, and they left the plate. So at least there was that. I was shocked at myself because I think that, at least in an immediately sense, I was more distressed by the disappearance of my CD player than my drums. No CD player meant I�d have to drive around in silence, which is simply unacceptable. Make no mistake: I�m aggrieved for my drums. They were my pride and joy. The one nice, high-end extravagance I alowed myself. And now they�re in some asshole�s van, on their way to a pawn shop.
Maybe it�s because I just read If anything, the whole thing functioned as a jolt, an amped-up electrode stuck in the routine and humdrum I�ve been experiencing lately. Maybe it was the adrenaline surge, the high drama of crime, the novelty of victimhood, the police involvement. The notion that I prevailed, and I�m still on top of things, and I won�t let it ruin my life. And the comraderie: At least three other people on Jenn�s block had their cars burglarized last night; more were discovered as the day went on. The cops found fingerprints on the CD faceplate and in a couple other places. I don�t know if that�ll do any good.
I had to be at work at three-thirty. No sooner did I get on the interstate than my exhaust pipe dropped and my car began roaring most discourteously. I�m an alchemist when it comes to insult and injury. I just laughed my ass off, the rest of the way to work. Before I�d left, I�d managed to print off some phone numbers of pawn shops and music stores in the IC/Cedar Rapids, and when I went to work. The guy at West Music remembered who I was and said they could �help me out� if I needed a replacement kit.
In a weird way, I was in a much better mood. Jenn called, and had been locked out of her apartment. We�re both wondering if there�s been a serious karmic malfunction here. She got a ride out to the store so I could give her my copy of her key. We�re going to have a beer after I get off work. My self-imposed week of sobriety ends tonight. It occurred to me last night that this is probably the longest I�ve gone without a drop to drink in�god, probably four years. Four fucking years. Probably longer. What the hell?
Anyway. There�s my story. Tomorrow I�m going to get my car fixed, see The Rules Of Attraction, go to the Alto Heceta show, get drunk. And no busted-into car is going to stop me. |