In November I wrote about how I'd made a mixtape for the guys who were breaking into my car. It was an all the way honest thing, and in the days after it was posted I received several very nice emails, as well as a few Facebook and Twitter messages. I was proud, albeit moderately embarrassed. A couple of nights later, l I had the following conversation with a guy:
RP: I read your mixtape story.
Me: Thank you.
RP: When I was a kid, I dreamed of being a superhero.
RP: I was going to be like Batman — scratch that, I was going to BE Batman.
Me: Dude, what…?
RP: Did you ever want to be a superhero?
Me: Of course.
RP: So but then what happened?
Me: What do you mean?
RP: Your mixtape thing. You had crime at your doorstep. And your response was to do something for the criminal that you used to do for girls in high school?
RP: You should've given him a box of chocolates and then tried to finger him in the band room too. Then he'd have gotten the entire experience.
Me: Well, I mean, but there were two burglars, and I only have so many fingers, so.
Me: 🙁 I have to go.
Still, despite that, I still felt good about things. The Burgundy Bomber existed, free of unwanted entry. I assumed the burglars saw the note, realized the heinousness of their actions, realized how disappointing their lives had become, and then went home and immediately enrolled in some sort of trade school or something. I assumed the trajectory of their lives had been altered forever.
Alas, this is not a story written by Pixar. There is no happy ending. There is only dark, lonely emptiness. There are only holes where hearts should be. There is only profound sadness. God is a lie — or, at the very best, an occasional cock punch.
The Burgundy Bomber, THE ONLY CAR THAT I'VE EVER LOVED, MY ABSOLUTE FAVORITE INANIMATE OBJECT OF EVER, has been stolen.
(Only this, for the rest of my life.)
It happened between 7 p.m. Sunday and 7 a.m. Monday, a lovely little antigift waiting for me when I went outside to get in it and go to work.
I don't know who it was (obvs), but I'd like to think it was the same guys from before, if only because then at least they got the tape that I made for them. Even I cannot deny it is very excellent to imagine them driving around in my car, laughing, listening to the tape that I made for them in hopes that they'd not do exactly what they did. The only thing more excellent to imagine is a gigantic eagle swooping down and plucking their lungs from their chests at some point in the very near future.
After I realized what had happened, I cursed. Then I got SUPER mad. Then I got SUPER sad. Then I got SUPER DUPER mad. I felt like Bun B at the beginning of Three 6 Mafia's “Sippin' On Some Sizzurp.” I felt like the way the guy from Die Antwoord looks all the time.
I called the police and insurance company, both of which said there was little to be done other than sit and wait (despite being invaluable to me, The Bomber was worth less than a handful of American dollars). I got in my wife's car and drove around and looked for it. In hindsight, that was no more effective than the time I tried to use brain power to make Derek Fisher break both of his legs after he hit the AWFUL 0.4 Jumper against the San Antonio Spurs in the 2004 Playoffs. But it was all I could think to do.
The very last time I drove The Bomber was to take my sons to Blockbuster so they could pick the movie for Movie Night, a family tradition we've had for more nearly two years now. (On the way over, we listened to a chopped and screwed version of Kendrick Lamar's good kid, m.A.A.d. city.) And I suppose if the car had to be taken, I'm glad that that was the last thing I used it for.
But, man. fuckFuckFUCK.
The world is a dirty place.