Smashing a hole in the roof
a shupimta column by Chris Jungle

It could happen to you. It could happen to me. It may have already happened to you. It already happened to me, but it happened again. My car was broken into this week.

Allow me a paragraph of background information. I drive a 1988 Ford Escort hatchback. It is neither glamorous nor impressive. Some people have actually refused to ride in it for fear of being seen getting out of it in public. It is a less than attractive white box, but it gets me where I want to go without too much moaning from its four cylinders. I bought the car for three grand four years ago, and it has a little more than seventy thousand miles on it. It came with a sunroof and tinted windows. This is the second time it was broken into under my ownership.

Both times, the intruder took the same thing--my car stereo. The first time occurred in St. Petersburg, Florida. Someone smashed the passenger window and yanked out the stereo. I was angry and threw a mild tantrum yelling at anyone who would listen, but I figure I was allowed. It was my virgin break-in.

This break-in occurred in Albuquerque, outside of where I work my day job, in the middle of a thunderstorm. Unlike in Florida, the thief (or thieves) chose to smash my sunroof and come in through the top. This guaranteed that my car would not only be roughly raped but also soaked by the time I discovered it. Like before, all the intruder took was the car stereo. I had a copy of the final Lies Magazine in the back seat (sure to be worth hundreds of dollars in the future), but it sat quietly getting soaked along with the broken glass from my sunroof. I guess the thieves were not as literate as I'd hoped.

There is a good chance my sunroof was smashed and my stereo stolen so someone could trade it for some crack rocks. I'm not saying this to be stereotypical but base my statement on the fact that I see deals go down occasionally at the bus station nearby. At least someone got high for an hour or so by punishing my car. Somebody should get some pleasure from my pain.

When I discovered my beat up car, I did what every person should do--take the rest of the day off. Any time anonymous strangers screw with your life, you should call it quits and indulge in some simple quiet pleasure to balance out the situation. I set up an appointment to get the sun roof fixed, vacuumed out the glass, went home and read a couple of J.D. Salinger's Nine Stories. Cheap therapy.

I was mad at the poor and destitute for a little while. While I like the idea of Robin Hood stealing from the rich and giving to the poor, I'm not exactly the rich. I had enough money to replace both the window and stereo from my first break in only to have someone else break my sun roof and new stereo. If the poor steal from the slightly less poor, who is getting rich? Insurance companies.

I don't like insurance. I don't like the fact that we have to pay someone else just in fear that bad things will happen. I don't like buying peace of mind. I'd rather buy a piece of mind. At least that way I might purchase some intelligence on accident.

My co-workers first question when I explained the break in was "Are you going to call the police?" followed quickly by "Will your insurance cover this?" My answer to both questions was "No."

The police and I have an understanding. I don't expect the police to fix my problems, and in return, they don't harass me about not caring about being a caring part of society. A fair trade off. As far as insurance companies go, most of my stuff isn't worth protecting, and there's a good chance I'd still have to pay when things get stolen. Love those deductibles.

This week has just been a part of life. So basically, life screwed me over this week. It punched a hole in the roof of my Escort and reminded me things can always get worse. Worse than my struggling football team, worse than not being able to come up with a creative thought, worse than all the petty complaints we all bitch about to tell others how bad we have it.

Now, I have three hundred dollars less in my account, a new sun roof, a hole where my car stereo used to be, and a realization that I don't have it so bad. That's not so bad.

Chris Jungle has nothing left of value in his Escort except a fresh copy of the final issue of Lies Magazine.

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