Handy Manny: A Gift from Hayley and David Heitker. February 8, 2010
Saturday, February 13, 2010
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
Receiving (my own) stolen goods
As the cliche goes, today started out like any other day. It's a beautiful morning, 62 degrees, topped off with a crispy blue autumn sky.
As per the morning routine, I pull up to my daughter's daycare, located in a church on East McMillan in East Walnut Hills, get my daugher out of her carseat, and walk in. The road crew working 30 feet from my car is loud. I notice other parents walking their children in. And cars pass in front of my car from the east and the west.
Suffice it to say that I am shocked to walk back out to my car after the four-minutes it took to drop my daughter off at daycare to find my passenger side window smashed in. For two seconds I am in denial that my computer, and back-up drive, and back-up to my back up, as well as my new Iphone, have all been grabbed.
Immediately I send a text from a co-worker's cell to my phone offering $800 for the goods. No response.
I call my cell phone number. No response.
Shoot.
My co-worker suggests I call the cops or AT&T to see if they can trace the GPS on my phone. GENIUS! GENIUS! I LOVE my co-workers. They are SO SMART!
But, neither the cops nor AT&T can help my genius friend help me. The cops and AT&T don't trace the GPS on cell phones. (A 1972 response to 2008 technology).
Shoot.
Shoot.
Shoot.
*****
Panic is now growing roots. ALL MY WORK. My budget from 2004 is on that computer. My budget from 2005...2006...2007....2008....media archives, images, copy, blah blah blah. And, my back up to my hard drive is IN THE SAME BAG as my computer. (I said my co-workers are geniuses...I didn't say that I'M ONE myself). Oh, and the photos of my daughter, taken since her birth and only backed up once, were on another external drive in the same d@$#%@ bag.
*****
I'm desperate. I am trying to work on another computer at the YMCA near the daycare, but I am compelled to take action. I make a few flyers offering a $500 reward for the return of my goods and put them up on the telephone poles surrounding the building.
OK. Back to work.
*****
Wait, I must be more proactive. MY STUFF IS SOMEWHERE OUT THERE AND I MUST GET IT. And I'm not talking about regular stuff. I am talking about information: Photos, data, history.
I am talking about my livelihood.
******
I take some of the flyers, get in my car and drive to a place called Peebles Corner. I hate to say it, but P.C. is best known for crackheads, hookers, and desperation.
Oh, yeah, and stolen merchandise.
I start to hand the flyers out. I pull over to the sidewalk with my window down.
A group of young men listen to music on a laptop by a busstop. I give them a reward flyer. The taller of the men is kind. He promises to look for it.
In fact, the next four men I hand a flyer to promise to help me. MY CO-WORKERS ARE GENIUSES AND THE MEN WHO HANG OUT ON THE STREET ARE GRACIOUS. I am noticing some loveliness in this mess.
I pull up to a group of men hanging out on the sidewalk--young, in their early twenties. A women near them is having a delusional crack-infested episode, barking out sounds and random words.
A tall man approaches my car. I hand him a flyer. He tells me he knows who may have my phone. I tell him I'll give him $200. He asks me if I have the cash now.
"No. But where is the closest ATM," I say. He points me to Kroger.
This is what later strikes me: I am acting chaotic, like an addict. I am submerged in an addict's world---doing business with "dealers" in an area where any addiction can be satisfied.
Even my addiction to being on the grid.
Just look at me on a normal day. I'm never more than 5 feet from my cell phone.
*****
I walk up to Kroger and go for the money machine. Passing the urban-grocery store cop-on-duty, I laugh as I tell him I am getting money to purchase my own stolen phone back. The cops eyebrows go up, and I tell him that he cannot follow me.
I make my way back to tall-stolen-phone-man. He takes me into a small crappy "beauty supply" store. He pulls out the phone. I pull out the money.
We do business.
Giant-theiving-phone-guy tells me he knows who has my computer, too. He shames the guy who broke into my car, calling him "rude" while he takes my money for MY phone.
Immediately I get the phone re-activated, only to find the brazen thief took portraits of his buddies, colleagues, and block-mates on my Iphone. I swear about 8 of the photos were filled with people saying "cheeeeeeeeeeeeze."
Two hours later the phone rings again. Big-Burglar has the computer. I scrape together the $300 I promised for the computer and the back-up drives, including 20's, 10's, 5's, singles, and 8 quarters. It looks like stripper money. Or bar tips.
Or a kids piggie bank. Which, in reality, I get some of the money from---my kid's piggie bank. And my boyfriend's ATM card. Oh, and our garage sale revenue.
I drive back to P.C.
I don't admit out loud I am scared. My boyfriend can't go with me because he has his kids and I need someone to watch mine. I can't get someone else because I have to move fast, and I don't want to put anyone else in danger. And I am not sure how long Ginormous-robber-guy will stick around with my stuff.
I leave my house with a pit in my stomach. On my way to P.C., I pass a homicide scene. I call my friend who tells me there were six shootings in Cincinnati within the last few hours. The cops can't figure out what's going on. It's all over the news.
I call the man with my stuff, as he didn't try to hide his phone number when he called me. I tell him I'm scared. He says "this is mah block. Mah block! Ain't noone gettin' charges off this thing." I take that to mean I will likely not get shot, as my little computer and $300 aren't worth someone going to jail.
Jeez, I hope so.
I pull up to burglar-beanstalk-man. By now, we are old friends. I am about to vomit from anxiety. My gut is telling me to drive away. My friend on the phone is telling me to drive away. My boyfriend had called me a few minutes before to tell me to turn around and come home.
Overwhelming intuition and others' advice compells me to drive away...
but I don't.
I pull up close to the Kroger, but I get waved to back up, closer to the "beauty supply" store.
Ack. It is 7 p.m. It is getting dark. Six men walk toward my car.
I have lost my freaking mind.
I roll my window down and hand over an envelope stuffed with paper and change, totalling $300.
My best new friend hands me a plastic bag with my laptop in it. I don't even open it. I trust my treasured hard drives are in there. I tell the man to be careful...that there have been six shootings tonight.
He tells me nothin's happenin' on "his block." I tell the man who stole my stuff to be careful again. That he is not immune from getting shot.
He tells me he has a "vest" on.
This would be a bullet-proof vest.
I drive away and return home.
I am the proud new owner of my own stolen goods.
******
As per the morning routine, I pull up to my daughter's daycare, located in a church on East McMillan in East Walnut Hills, get my daugher out of her carseat, and walk in. The road crew working 30 feet from my car is loud. I notice other parents walking their children in. And cars pass in front of my car from the east and the west.
Suffice it to say that I am shocked to walk back out to my car after the four-minutes it took to drop my daughter off at daycare to find my passenger side window smashed in. For two seconds I am in denial that my computer, and back-up drive, and back-up to my back up, as well as my new Iphone, have all been grabbed.
Immediately I send a text from a co-worker's cell to my phone offering $800 for the goods. No response.
I call my cell phone number. No response.
Shoot.
My co-worker suggests I call the cops or AT&T to see if they can trace the GPS on my phone. GENIUS! GENIUS! I LOVE my co-workers. They are SO SMART!
But, neither the cops nor AT&T can help my genius friend help me. The cops and AT&T don't trace the GPS on cell phones. (A 1972 response to 2008 technology).
Shoot.
Shoot.
Shoot.
*****
Panic is now growing roots. ALL MY WORK. My budget from 2004 is on that computer. My budget from 2005...2006...2007....2008....media archives, images, copy, blah blah blah. And, my back up to my hard drive is IN THE SAME BAG as my computer. (I said my co-workers are geniuses...I didn't say that I'M ONE myself). Oh, and the photos of my daughter, taken since her birth and only backed up once, were on another external drive in the same d@$#%@ bag.
*****
I'm desperate. I am trying to work on another computer at the YMCA near the daycare, but I am compelled to take action. I make a few flyers offering a $500 reward for the return of my goods and put them up on the telephone poles surrounding the building.
OK. Back to work.
*****
Wait, I must be more proactive. MY STUFF IS SOMEWHERE OUT THERE AND I MUST GET IT. And I'm not talking about regular stuff. I am talking about information: Photos, data, history.
I am talking about my livelihood.
******
I take some of the flyers, get in my car and drive to a place called Peebles Corner. I hate to say it, but P.C. is best known for crackheads, hookers, and desperation.
Oh, yeah, and stolen merchandise.
I start to hand the flyers out. I pull over to the sidewalk with my window down.
A group of young men listen to music on a laptop by a busstop. I give them a reward flyer. The taller of the men is kind. He promises to look for it.
In fact, the next four men I hand a flyer to promise to help me. MY CO-WORKERS ARE GENIUSES AND THE MEN WHO HANG OUT ON THE STREET ARE GRACIOUS. I am noticing some loveliness in this mess.
I pull up to a group of men hanging out on the sidewalk--young, in their early twenties. A women near them is having a delusional crack-infested episode, barking out sounds and random words.
A tall man approaches my car. I hand him a flyer. He tells me he knows who may have my phone. I tell him I'll give him $200. He asks me if I have the cash now.
"No. But where is the closest ATM," I say. He points me to Kroger.
This is what later strikes me: I am acting chaotic, like an addict. I am submerged in an addict's world---doing business with "dealers" in an area where any addiction can be satisfied.
Even my addiction to being on the grid.
Just look at me on a normal day. I'm never more than 5 feet from my cell phone.
*****
I walk up to Kroger and go for the money machine. Passing the urban-grocery store cop-on-duty, I laugh as I tell him I am getting money to purchase my own stolen phone back. The cops eyebrows go up, and I tell him that he cannot follow me.
I make my way back to tall-stolen-phone-man. He takes me into a small crappy "beauty supply" store. He pulls out the phone. I pull out the money.
We do business.
Giant-theiving-phone-guy tells me he knows who has my computer, too. He shames the guy who broke into my car, calling him "rude" while he takes my money for MY phone.
Immediately I get the phone re-activated, only to find the brazen thief took portraits of his buddies, colleagues, and block-mates on my Iphone. I swear about 8 of the photos were filled with people saying "cheeeeeeeeeeeeze."
Two hours later the phone rings again. Big-Burglar has the computer. I scrape together the $300 I promised for the computer and the back-up drives, including 20's, 10's, 5's, singles, and 8 quarters. It looks like stripper money. Or bar tips.
Or a kids piggie bank. Which, in reality, I get some of the money from---my kid's piggie bank. And my boyfriend's ATM card. Oh, and our garage sale revenue.
I drive back to P.C.
I don't admit out loud I am scared. My boyfriend can't go with me because he has his kids and I need someone to watch mine. I can't get someone else because I have to move fast, and I don't want to put anyone else in danger. And I am not sure how long Ginormous-robber-guy will stick around with my stuff.
I leave my house with a pit in my stomach. On my way to P.C., I pass a homicide scene. I call my friend who tells me there were six shootings in Cincinnati within the last few hours. The cops can't figure out what's going on. It's all over the news.
I call the man with my stuff, as he didn't try to hide his phone number when he called me. I tell him I'm scared. He says "this is mah block. Mah block! Ain't noone gettin' charges off this thing." I take that to mean I will likely not get shot, as my little computer and $300 aren't worth someone going to jail.
Jeez, I hope so.
I pull up to burglar-beanstalk-man. By now, we are old friends. I am about to vomit from anxiety. My gut is telling me to drive away. My friend on the phone is telling me to drive away. My boyfriend had called me a few minutes before to tell me to turn around and come home.
Overwhelming intuition and others' advice compells me to drive away...
but I don't.
I pull up close to the Kroger, but I get waved to back up, closer to the "beauty supply" store.
Ack. It is 7 p.m. It is getting dark. Six men walk toward my car.
I have lost my freaking mind.
I roll my window down and hand over an envelope stuffed with paper and change, totalling $300.
My best new friend hands me a plastic bag with my laptop in it. I don't even open it. I trust my treasured hard drives are in there. I tell the man to be careful...that there have been six shootings tonight.
He tells me nothin's happenin' on "his block." I tell the man who stole my stuff to be careful again. That he is not immune from getting shot.
He tells me he has a "vest" on.
This would be a bullet-proof vest.
I drive away and return home.
I am the proud new owner of my own stolen goods.
******
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