wouldn't hold out much hope for the creedence
Well, after 26.3 safe and serene years calling Twenty One Forty-Five home, it finally had to happen. MJW’s pickup got broken into last Friday evening.
Not that this was the first instance of crime at the Parental Casa worthy of memory. Circa 1985, unidentified but certainly evil individuals absconded with a certain Kuwahara BMX bike. We’re commanded to forgive, but I wouldn’t blame Older Bro if he still has issues with the fiends that robbed him and his bike of a starring role in “Rad.”
The fact that I happened to be visiting home the weekend of the mysterious F-150 caper made the circumstance all the more unusual, at least in the mind of MJW. Not long after he goateed his way out the door Saturday morning, he called me at the house, presumably while parked in the driveway in his Cowboy Cadillac.
MJW: “Didya git some stuff outta mah pickup last night?”
mjw: “Huh?”
MJW: “Well, mah checkbook’s missin’, and mah CDs, and so’s yer mother’s GPS dealy!”
mjw: “I don’t know, Dad. Maybe Mom has that stuff. It’s hers anyway.”
What MJW had failed to discover in his pre-7-Eleven coffee trip haze was the manner in which the F-150 had failed to escape the dark hours unmolested. No window was broken. No metal was bent. A Messianic prophecy of sorts. Apparently, The Cat had some pretty specialized tools, gaining entry through, of all things, the lock itself.
The main clue to illicit entry? The interior map light had been carefully, even lovingly, deprived of its bulbs, so as not to draw attention to the vehicle during the strangely well-planned episode. The Cat had even placed the bulbs in the cupholder. Oh, and a small piece of the exterior lock had gone AWOL. If it turns out that the Ghost of Alfred Hitchcock has cast the Ghost of Cary Grant in some new reality series, I wouldn’t be surprised.
Meanwhile, as MJW summoned Denton’s Finest, I left the Casa to see The Pilot for the day. So I can only imagine the conversation between MJW and Detective Friday.
Friday: “What’s missing here?”
MJW: “Well, mah checkbook, and mah wife’s Magellan GPS, and some of mah CDs.”
Friday: “Some?”
MJW: “Yeah, they left the Garrison Keillor CDs. Took mah Eagles though.”
Friday: "You're lucky they left the Creedence."
Her Honor called me later that afternoon to apprise me of the situation. Indeed her life had taken a turn for the marginally inconvenient, the Turbocharged and Intercooled Shoebox now being sans GPS unit on a more permanent basis than she had anticipated when she “loaned” the Magellan to MJW. If map-folding prowess is an inherited trait, then Her Honor is going to need an automatic.
Not that this was the first instance of crime at the Parental Casa worthy of memory. Circa 1985, unidentified but certainly evil individuals absconded with a certain Kuwahara BMX bike. We’re commanded to forgive, but I wouldn’t blame Older Bro if he still has issues with the fiends that robbed him and his bike of a starring role in “Rad.”
The fact that I happened to be visiting home the weekend of the mysterious F-150 caper made the circumstance all the more unusual, at least in the mind of MJW. Not long after he goateed his way out the door Saturday morning, he called me at the house, presumably while parked in the driveway in his Cowboy Cadillac.
MJW: “Didya git some stuff outta mah pickup last night?”
mjw: “Huh?”
MJW: “Well, mah checkbook’s missin’, and mah CDs, and so’s yer mother’s GPS dealy!”
mjw: “I don’t know, Dad. Maybe Mom has that stuff. It’s hers anyway.”
What MJW had failed to discover in his pre-7-Eleven coffee trip haze was the manner in which the F-150 had failed to escape the dark hours unmolested. No window was broken. No metal was bent. A Messianic prophecy of sorts. Apparently, The Cat had some pretty specialized tools, gaining entry through, of all things, the lock itself.
The main clue to illicit entry? The interior map light had been carefully, even lovingly, deprived of its bulbs, so as not to draw attention to the vehicle during the strangely well-planned episode. The Cat had even placed the bulbs in the cupholder. Oh, and a small piece of the exterior lock had gone AWOL. If it turns out that the Ghost of Alfred Hitchcock has cast the Ghost of Cary Grant in some new reality series, I wouldn’t be surprised.
Meanwhile, as MJW summoned Denton’s Finest, I left the Casa to see The Pilot for the day. So I can only imagine the conversation between MJW and Detective Friday.
Friday: “What’s missing here?”
MJW: “Well, mah checkbook, and mah wife’s Magellan GPS, and some of mah CDs.”
Friday: “Some?”
MJW: “Yeah, they left the Garrison Keillor CDs. Took mah Eagles though.”
Friday: "You're lucky they left the Creedence."
Her Honor called me later that afternoon to apprise me of the situation. Indeed her life had taken a turn for the marginally inconvenient, the Turbocharged and Intercooled Shoebox now being sans GPS unit on a more permanent basis than she had anticipated when she “loaned” the Magellan to MJW. If map-folding prowess is an inherited trait, then Her Honor is going to need an automatic.
posted by mjw at 4/05/2005 08:52:00 PM
<< Home