The morning I woke up, getting ready to head back to my home in Oakland, I found a strange feeling in my craw. You know where your craw is. It's in the pit of your stomach, and Merriam Webster would like us to know "especially in lower animals." The feeling I had was anger, so that lower animal thing made sense. I had, at last, arrived at a moment when sadness would no longer satisfy me on the loss of our car. I was mad at the idea of having to go out and find a new car. The finances being the worst of it. I don't need a wave of salesmen and their managers to help me discover that the thin line between getting by comfortably and not so much is defined by the addition of a monthly car payment.
Sure, we were throwing about a thousand dollars at our Saturn wagon every year. Pieces were breaking and falling off of it at what sometimes seemed like an alarming rate. But it was our car, and every air filter and side-view mirror we bought was going onto our car. That three hundred dollar alternator that we paid for the week before it was stolen was installed with the intent of keeping the beast alive long enough for my son to be guaranteed his first car. Then my wife and I would have saved up enough to buy the car we really wanted for our golden years. Or something like that.
Instead, some tiny-brained twit took something that didn't belong to him. He stole from us. I reflected on all the silly stories we made up about how this all made sense in the big picture, but it really doesn't. I don't want to test drive any cars. I want my car back. I know that we might have avoided this experience by having an alarm installed, or putting a big iron bar across the steering wheel. We could have purchased a less-theft-provoking car in the first place, but that's not the point. It's not right to take things that are not yours. That's stealing. That makes you a thief.
And if you're reading this blog and you stole my car, I am very angry with you.