Panic set in. Who to call first? It was 7:30 on a Wednesday morning. I knew Mum would be asleep, but I tried anyway. Mum would fix this. Mum would rescue me. Mum would find my car. No answer. Fuck.
Dad was next up. I attempted to type his number into my cellphone, but my grief-stricken head was jumbling numbers and I dialed my own. Hitting my voice mail confused me.
Remembering that I had numbers saved in my phone (fucking duh), I typed in D-A-D and hit call. Two rings later, he picked up.
"Hello?"
"Hey, Dad."
"Yeah?"
"My car was stolen."
"Shiiiiiit."
Not exactly sure what I was expecting out of my father at that moment. Sympathy. Empathy. Reassurance. I explained my next course of action was to call the Portland Police non-emergency number (503.823.3333), file a report and contact my insurance agent. Dad gave his blessing.
The non-emergency number enters with prerecorded instructions to "Please hang up and dial 911 if this is an emergency." Well no shit. From there it's one of those Choose-Your-Own-Adventure phone robot games. Press 1 if this shit happened to you. Press 2 if you want a cop. Press 3 if yadda yadda yadda. Upon successfully navigating the phone tree maze, I reached an enthusiastic (not sarcasm) dispatcher who diligently took down my information and instructed me to wait for an office to file a police report.
Wait? Wait where? There's no time to wait!
I paced up and down the block thinking every passing minute was increased opportunity for my car to be stripped, dumped and burned. The Silver Surfer could be miles away by now. He's in trouble. HE NEEDS ME!
My next dial was to the insurance agent. I wasn't wasting any time. She needed to know. I needed to alert her to this travesty and brace her for the claims filing ahead. Helpful as always, Agent passed along her sympathies and told me to get her the case number off the police report when I could.
"Will do." *Click*
Frustrated by the amount of time passing, I walked the distance from my apartment door to the curb where I'd left the car, all the while clicking the panic button on the fob. After several trips, I admitted futility and, ultimately, defeat. Whoever had my car was clearly not hiding it on my block.
Amazingly I felt little anger towards the individual responsible for jacking the Silver Surfer. I'm OK, the car is just a material possession, and besides, insurance will pick up the tab. I was at peace with the idea that perhaps the perpetrator needed the car more than me. Times were hard and they were pushed to the edge...Gone in Sixty Seconds style.
Not to say I didn't want the car back. So in an act of desperation, I turned to social media in the hopes of attracting enough eyes to somehow miraculously save the Silver Surfer from the clutches of evil.
Dumb. Naive. Desperate. The method of grassroots detective work via social media seemed logical at the time, but ultimately it leads to nothing more than online sympathy and a plethera of text messages from friends reading, "Dude!" or "Seriously?!" or "What happened?!"
Aware I would need to get to work eventually, I called Girlfriend, knowing full well she'd be asleep but would likely have her phone on.
"I'm still sleeping," she said in a groggy voice.
"I know, [cutesy pet name], but someone stole my car."
"What?!"
She was energized. After providing all the details, I asked her for a ride to work. She would get ready for work and be right over. Excellent.
All the phone calls, texts, and live tweeting was sucking my smartphone's juices, so I moved the search HQ into my apartment. After plugging in the phone, I setup my laptop to follow social media updates and turned on the local news in hopes of a police chase/arrest involving my car. Nothing.
To pass the time, I began trolling Craigslist. Half in search of my car. Half in search of a new car. I was coming to terms with my loss. Chances were good that I'd never see the Silver Surfer again. He was gone. If the body ever was found, I knew it would be stripped. The car would be written off by insurance and I'd need a replacement. Moving on was the right thing to do. It's what he would have wanted...
An eternity passed before the police officer called. He explained there had been a car accident and it took precedent, so he would need to take my statement by phone. He took similar information as the dispatcher, walked me through the last time I saw the vehicle, and then gave a police report number (which I promptly passed along to my insurance agent).
Alright. Shit was handled. My parents were in the loop. My social network was keeping an eye out. My local cops had an APB out. My insurance agent was processing the claim. My employer was expecting a late arrival. My Craigslist prospecting was decent. My girlfriend was on her way over for pickup. Nothing to do now but sit and wait.
Girlfriend didn't mess around. She arrived in about 20 minutes and called my cell.
"Hey."
"Hi."
"Are you here?"
"Yes."
"OK...I'll be right down..."
"What's your license plate?"
"[plate number]...why?"
"Your car is down here?"
"WHAT?!...Are you serious?"
"Yes...your car is down the block."
In my morning mental fog and haste to get to work, I had arrived at the exact spot where I had parked my car...two days earlier. I had indeed left the Silver Surfer in that very spot, but I had subsequently moved him. I saw the tempered glass laying in an empty spot on the block, put two and two together and made fifty-seven.
Defense: I live in the city. I don't have assigned parking. I park on the street. My driveway is about a four block radius around my apartment. This was bound to happen eventually.
Lesson: If I ever find my car stolen again, I'll take a deep breath and walk the streets around my apartment clicking my fob prior to calling/posting anyone/anything.
Advice: If you ever report your car stolen and find it before the authorities do, make sure you notify the cops. They will pull you out at gunpoint, rough you up a bit, and generally treat you like a criminal.
xoxo,
ShavedGolf
