Brothas Stole My Ride

I have a yearly ritual with my car. Every August, the car decides it needs major repairs that I can barely afford. This year, it wanted a new axle. 700 dollars. Not too bad considering that it wanted a new transmission last year.

The mechanic wouldn't have the needed parts until today. He told me to drop my car off on Sunday night. I did. The neighborhood isn't in a high crime area, and as the cop who took my report told me later, there hasn't been a car stolen from there in six years.

I'm fucking lucky, I guess. Maybe I should play the lottery.

Remembering that one of my headlights was out, I called the mechanic this morning to ask him to replace it.

He said that would be fine, as soon as I dropped the car off.

But I did drop it off, I told him. And he responded with, "Oh, shit."

Off to the police station and insurance company.

At the police station, I waited for a cop to make my report. As I waited, a woman I went to high school with entered the station. She wanted to file a missing person report.

For whom?

Her husband. He hadn't been home since Friday.

The officer asked if they were having marital problems, or if there was any reason he'd leave.

She became defensive. "What the fuck are you talking about? We have a happy marriage! A happy, happy, happy marriage!"

Yeah, a marriage involving two 22 year olds and three children under the age of 5 usually screams, "We are happy!"

I started to look on the bright side. Shit, I might only have enough money to buy a 1984 Olds as a replacement, but at least I haven't fucked up my life.

Former high school classmate didn't see me. I don't think I could have tolerated looking at photos of her children.

Finally, a cop came to take my report. I told him that the car would turn up soon. He asked how I could be so sure.

"Well, it's a 13-year-old car without a working stereo or speakers. It has less than a quarter tank of gas, and there's a lock on the gas tank. A headlight is out, and it needs a major repair. And the only items of 'value' are two mix tapes, a pack of stale, two-year-old Camels, jumper cables, a mini-extinguisher and a macroeconomics textbook. "

Nobody's going to sell it to a chopshop, and there's no way in hell the ghetto dwellers who stole it can make it down to North Carolina to visit relatives.

Statistically, there's a 95 percent change that the car will turn up within the next week, busted window and all.

Any why is that? Because the teenaged victims of society just wanted to borrow my car for an evening of fun. It's "joyriding," you see. It's not really car theft because, yo, they wasn't going to keep it, yo.

It's the sense of entitlement that these brats feel that causes them to destroy the property others have worked hard to purchase.

Whether the car was stolen by keepin' it real niggaz or white-bread suburbanites, the rationale is the same: The world owes me.

If they're from the ghetto, they haven't paid for anything other than an ounce of weed. Their lives are supported by the taxpayers. We pay for their food and shelter, and eventually, we pay for them to be fed and housed in juvenile detention.

If they're from the suburbs, they haven't paid for anything other than a few tabs of ecstacy. Their lives are supported by their parents. They pay for their food and shelter, and eventually, we pay for them to be fed and housed in juvenile detention.

They're two sides of the same coin, and they both come packaged in Tommy Hilfiger clothing.

No one has taught them how to be responsible because the ones entrusted to care for them aren't responsible themselves.

One cop I talked to said that in the past, the state would garnish money from the parents' welfare and unemployment checks. The parents bitched about it, and he doesn't think the program exists now.

It's a shame, but it leaves the door open for a better punishment: the death penalty.

I'm going out to look for my car. If I see the little shits who took it, they're gone. No one will miss them.

Wish me luck.

Update: My car was found after three days of temporary ownership. (Isn't that what they're calling auto theft these days?) The front passenger window was broken. The steering column was busted. The stereo system was missing, as were the gas cap and spare tire. The floor was littered with the edible memories of its journey: a small container of soy sauce, four bottles of Olde English and a few pieces of General Tso's chicken. Almost everything was stolen from my car, including my registration. The insurance company totaled the car and wrote me a check for $1000 over the Blue Book value. The thieves are still out there, but given the average life expectancy of an inner-city male, they should be dead soon.

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