Tag: Theft

I do not currently know where I am – Pt. 1

Good morning. I assume it’s the morning anyway. I can’t see outside.

I’m sorry I haven’t blogged in a while. I’ve been really busy the last few weeks, eating, drinking, sleeping, getting kidnapped, and having to bring the car in to get repaired.

Note: That’s not a chronological list.

I was on my way home from work when it happened; it’s only a walk for five minutes to the warehouse from home that I take when I don’t have my car, and it was during the return walk at 8-of-the-evening-clock when it did happen.

Where? I don’t remember. Not far.

Who? I couldn’t catch their faces, but they were well-built and wore coveralls, and I did see a van that was parked close by. There were ladders on this van. Perhaps they were a gang of commercial painter/hoodlums or something, but they were definitely shady.

I am currently at St. Andrew’s Hospital, and I’ve been told by the staff that I’ve been here for more than a week. Nobody knows who the mugs were. Or they won’t tell me. That’s a possibility, because they are very weird here.

They have the curtains closed, so I can’t see outside. I’d ask to be sat up–I’m too weak to help myself–but the nurse just says no. Playing with the buttons didn’t do anything but help me raise my legs or tilt to either side. Then I’d ask for water but she says no. I’ve asked several times for her to open the window but she tells me that I need more rest and sunlight will make it hard for me to rest so just rest please and stop asking about the flipping window.

They won’t let me eat anything but McDonald’s. I have nothing against McDonald’s, but I don’t really have anything for it, either, and so it’s strange to be both willing to eat hospital food and still being denied.

I do actually need water. I’m writing this post as I wait for the nurse to come with it finally.

[…]

And now I have it. She asked what I was writing and I told her the truth–I’m blogging. She asked what about and I lied–self-help. Now she’s gone.

The fact is that I’m the one who needs help. I feel trapped. I am trapped. I feel, therefore I am. Q.E.D.

I called the warehouse an hour ago on my bedside phone and got no response, despite the fact that the wall clock read 9:30, so either the clock is inaccurate or Wally left his office key home. It wouldn’t be the first time. He lives a half-hour away. All highway miles. Forty-five minutes away when he wakes up late.

I can’t concentrate. I’m seeing colors. No wait, that’s just a memory. Blood everywhere. No wait, that’s red paint. Hang on, I’m getting something. It was a red building. A barn? No, it wasn’t a barn. A fire station? No, just be quiet for a minute and let me think. I don’t know. It’s all so foggy. London? No, leave me alone!

I have to get out of here. I inch myself to the edge of my bed but lose all strength. I sit for a while and then think of a joke: “Why didn’t the standard, foot-long ruler get lonely? Because a metric ruler was centimeter!”

On the count of three I lifted myself to my feet and, with great doing, had stumbled to the wall to support myself.

Floor tile after floor tile after floor tile, I watched the floor tiles pass under me as I passed over them without passing out. Before I knew it, I was at the door. *bump* Ouch! I hit my head on said door. I opened it.

Much to my discombobulation, I observed what appeared to be the inside of a small garage marked with gardening equipment and a small mower. The garage door was open, and the yard outside was a beautifully landscaped site, with flowers running along a proper wooden fence, huge trees canvassing the whole yard like a local politician, and a sprinkler making its spritzy rounds across the green grass.

I shed the garage and saw that there stood a very fine, very immaculate stone-wall house just at the end of the yard, facing away from me. I walked slowly and with great pain to the front lawn and saw that the lights were on.

I jumped back before anyone might’ve been able to see me. Crouching, I snuck around to the side of the house and peered in, shaking. I saw no one.

Just as I started stealthily crossing back to the front and heading down the driveway to the sidewalk, a big, old, loud red truck zoomed up the street and parked in front of the house. Panicked, I ran, lopsided and limping, as fast as I could away and down the street.

“Hey,” the driver of the truck, an older woman, 50s or so, a Taurus surely, shouted as she slammed her door and pursued me. “You can’t leave!” she followed up.

I couldn’t run any longer. I stopped and got down on the ground. “Leave me alone!” I shouted. “I don’t know who you are! Just leave me alone!”

She came closer and stared down at me as I tried to regain my breath. “I know who you are!” she said, smirking a smirk of evil while laughing. She dragged me back to the house.

*This post will be continued.*

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The leather jacket story

Essentially, all I do is put and take stuff on and off shelves all day, but it’s not as boring as it sounds.

Once a guy’s truckload of used leather jackets from an antique motorist club’s local chapter was deposited on site and it was my job that morning to clean them. Now, like with most used clothes, these jackets had some “pocket-treasures,” if you will, but you may find this case of special interest.

Firstly, practically every member carried a business card–I suppose technically it would be a “club card,” but the inclusion of office #s, FAX #s, and some address on the cards sort of confused me.

Secondly, trinkets. Random things. Not even hood ornaments. One guy had a cardboard-origami swan in his pocket. A zip-up pocket. What significance does that play? And what about the blank dice? Or the metal spork? Or the broken mouse trap?

One carried a set of false teeth. That’s right–actual false teeth! This was when I was convinced we weren’t playing lost-and-found (or at least this was what I was now hoping).

I called the office phone number that the cards provided and asked about their various objects to make sure that this was not an accident and that they for sure were not needed. The phone never picked up.

I called back the guy who made the drop-off–his name’s DEW Cedar. Dew told me the club had been disbanded for over a decade. Well, alright then.

He said the trinkets were their way of identifying each other’s cars. They would be hidden inside their vehicles, and if ever one was stolen they would just use an “ASCII table” of sorts (???) to map each member to their unique item and determine ownership and whatnot.

To show me the significance of these cars in their world, he went on to tell me that in 1992 a buddy of his, WILLY, had his white ’53 Chevy Corvette stolen one night.

The next week, at a famous car show, the club was gathered in the lot as a green ’53 Corvette entered the scene. The DRIVER stepped out and proceeded to open the hood and the trunk. The entire group followed Willy to the critical vehicle. This was the following conversation:

WILLY.  That’s a darn-fine car you got there. ’53 Corvette?

DRIVER.  Good eye.

W.  I had one of those. Up until about a week ago.

D.  …Oh. …You’d sell a car like this one?

W.  Nope, I’d never sell such a beauty. And I wouldn’t say it was a car like that one.

D.  …You wouldn’t…?

W.  How long have you had this one?

D.  …Almost 20 years….

W.  Mind if I take a look in the trunk?

D.  I suppose not, as long as you don’t run away with it! *laugh; realization that he is alone in doing so*

W.  *close inspection of trunk* What’s this hairbrush doing in here?

D.  Hairbrush? Oh, yes, the hairbrush… I… use it sometimes… when I’m changing a tire.

W.  Yeah? I guess that’s too ridiculous to be a lie. You know, I actually kept a hairbrush in my trunk, but I guess that’s just a coincidence and nothing more.

D.  …Yeah, weird.

W.  Nice paint job, though.

D.  Thanks! But it’s always been green.

W.  I didn’t say you changed the color. You could’ve just done some freshening up, right?

D.  Right, of course. I guess I just inferred from your facial expression that you meant I changed the color of the car and I was like, “What? That doesn’t make any sense.” That’s what I was thinking–you’re the one who said it oddly, not me. I’m just here at the car show with my car.

W.  You mean my car?

D.  Um, no, ’cause it’s not.

W.  You’re not a very good liar.

D.  Excuse me–you mean I’m not a good truth teller, because that’s what I’m doing.

Willy then pulled a key out of his pocket and quickly locked the driver door with it.

W.  Curious, this random key of mine happens to work on your car’s door. Isn’t that curious?

D.  N-no, that’s…. No, it’s n-not, because y-you stole that key from me!

But that was enough of that. The group helped Willy help himself into his car. As Dew said, the rest of it is history.

I informed him that it was all, in fact, history, but I thanked him for the story. By now the jackets are probably distributed across almost the entire nation via online resale, but if not I might look into keeping one.