It’s just too much of a coincidence here.
Yesterday morning, Friday morning, I had to summon the county sheriff, as for the first time since I’ve lived in this county beginning fifteen years ago, I got stolen from.
Many have considered franksolich a sitting duck for such things, given that I don’t lock doors and windows and automobiles—in fact, it’s been more than a decade since I’ve seen certain keys—and allow primitives, usually old hippies, to freely wander around this place.
It looks careless, but it’s not. Anything of real value that franksolich owns, is locked up in a secured storage unit in town, or in a large safe-deposit box at the local bank, or in the waist-high really heavy 1880s safe kept by the business partner at his place.
What’s out here wouldn’t bring a hundred bucks from a garage sale, and that’s the way I like it. I like being able to live where I don’t have to worry about things; where I can just get up and leave any time I wish to. If natural disaster or civil insurrection were to happen, for example, all I’d have to do is collect the three orange cats, Ellie, Russ, and Rusty, toss them into the car and take off.
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So anyway, the sheriff pulled up, sirens blaring and red-and-blue lights blinking, revolver pulled, about 4:00 a.m.
Before getting an inventory of what was missing, he inquired if I had any idea who might’ve done it. “Like, have you had any strange visitors here the past twenty-four hours?â€
Yeah, I said, reminding him that the weather, although wet, has been good enough that people are still camping here, hoping to savor the experience for as long as possible. Although the daily Noahian deluge usually drives them from the riverside up here to the house.
“The most recent ones—who, yes, came into the house—were a guy and two heavy-set women, all of them looking to be in their forties. They gave me all the pertinent information about themselves, but being deaf, all I caught was that the guy’s name was ‘Ben,’ and I could tell from their motor vehicle with the old KERRY/EDWARDS bumper sticker that they were from West Virginia.
“They got my okay, and set up a tent down by the river.
“I didn’t think much of it, because people from West Virginia have always struck me as honest, hard-working, salt-of-the-earth types, decent and civilized people…..especially when compared with primitives and Lamond’s brothers living in the big blue cities back east.
“But in hindsight, I guess maybe I should’ve paid more attention.â€
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The sheriff and I walked around the place, as I itemized what was missing, beginning with an old Mason canning jar on the coffee-table in the living room—the first sign I’d gotten something was amiss—full of metal pocket-change.
“They were real idiots,†I pointed out, “taking the worthless stuff and leaving the valuable things. The jar had about twenty-five, thirty, bucks of change in it, and at the same time they left the autographed and framed photograph of the late Clare Boothe Luce unmolested.â€
My wallet was still on the dining room table, but the three bucks that had been in it were missing. I don’t put my plastic cards in my wallet or other papers of importance; just my standard identification and usually something about five bucks in cash, in case I happen to drive by a farmers’ market and want to pick up some things.
“It’s odd they’d take your three bucks, but not your identification,†the sheriff commented.
“Oh, you know how that is,†I replied. “Everybody knows who franksolich is, so nobody’s going to get by trying to use my identification.â€
We went into the kitchen, where the most grievous thefts had occurred. “I was stockpiling for winter—although it looks now as if winter’s going to be some time in coming yet—and there were six what were once three-pound cans of coffee; those are gone. But at least they left the pallet of big bags of dried cat food, and another pallet of big bags of cat-litter, alone.
“There's other groceries missing, but obviously they weren't the brightest thieves around.â€
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The sheriff of course knows that sometimes I keep substantial amounts of paper currency, for purposes of which he’s aware and thus need no explanation here, and told me to check that out. I opened the freezer of the refrigerator, and pulled out a box of frozen fish-sticks, destined never to be eaten.
I inspected the contents, counting $1803. “All here,†I said.
Then we went into the bathroom, finding all that was missing, was a bottle of Percodan or Percocet—I forget what it was exactly. “It was an old prescription,†I said, “from about 2003 or 2004, thirty pills of which there were still twenty-eight. I had them, but didn’t use them lest they send me down that slippery slope into primitivity.â€
We went into the bedroom, where I immediately noticed something was missing from the top of the dresser; a package of three brand-new men’s briefs, Hanes, 34†waistline. I’d gotten them because since the heart-attack sixteen months ago, while I haven’t shrunk considerably, I’d shrunk somewhat, from 36â€.
“Well, that’s not
too bad,†the sheriff said.
Uh no, I replied; “winter’s coming, and I’d already thrown out the too-big old ones, and those were the only ones I had.
“Since they were primitives, they probably would’ve taken them—just for the sheer joy of stealing—even if they’d been used and unlaundered.â€
