Early this afternoon, I got into my car to drive to a rehearsal and noted that the entire contents of my center storage compartment were strewn on the passenger seat. Knowing that I had not emptied the compartment, I looked through the stuff – dollar bills, receipts, junk mail, even some old Benadryl gelcaps….thinking: “Who breaks in and doesn’t take money or drugs??”

Returning home from rehearsal, and seeing a couple guys outside by the opposite curb working on a car, I asked if they’d seen anything suspicious around mine last night. I’d been up ’til 3am (practicing cello…)….No; they hadn’t. But, in the time it took me to park in my now clear drive, one of the guys went into the house and asked his son, a boy of about eleven who, he said, being homeschooled, stayed up late playing his Xbox.

Sure enough; the boy had seen a white towtruck driver GET INTO my car, sit in it for several minutes, and then get out and tow the car parked directly behind mine.

I spoke to the boy. He identified the color of the towtruck and its side lettering. A good detail kid. I asked if he’d be willing to give his report to the police.

Local police had no record of tows, repos, or impounds during that time frame. Also said that tows from the curb were only legal when the police department called for them.

Still, the cop who showed up to take the report, unshaven, was mild about the whole thing. He said it was probably a misunderstanding. Somebody reporting a dead car to the AAA, the towtruck driver not knowing a license number, getting into mine, not finding….what? Some form of ID in the vehicle? And, then, towing the other car. (!)

Still, breaking and entering.

Not knocking on my door, when tracing my license plate number to my home ownership would have been

….when I was up, playing my cello ’til 3 am, in the room facing the street.

Ahh, Slumtown.

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© Ruth Ann Scanzillo

4/18/15

littlebarefeetblog.com