Photograph by Siobhan Braun

When the tow truck came to drop off my car, it felt like the arrival of a ticker tape parade. It was a moment deserving of a marching band and sparklers.

Only 19 days into 2022, I managed both to contract Omicron and have my car stolen. When I attempted to pinpoint the origin of my terrible car-ma, the only thing I could come up with was the cashmere scarf I had picked up off the ground at the San Diego Airport back in December. It did not belong to me. It was not mine to take. However, it was cashmere, and it was evident it had been sitting at the Southwest terminal for a very long time. Its owner was nowhere to be found, and was probably on a plane heading somewhere like Paris or the Cayman Islands — not, like me, to the mountains of North Carolina. My husband Aaron wrinkled up his nose when he saw it in my hands. “You probably have Covid now,” he said in disgust.

Photograph by Matthew Suárez

“It’s Burberry,” I explained while squirting antibacterial lotion on my hands. “I can have it dry cleaned.” A quick google search showed that the scarf cost upwards of $500.

Fast-forward to the wee morning hours of January 19. That same scarf, despite its worth and sophistication, was crumpled up in the backseat of my car among the chip crumbs and empty water bottles when it — along with the car and the crumbs — was removed from my driveway while I was fast asleep. My fat pugs had not alerted me with angry barks. They had not made a peep while some stranger absconded with my dusty-on-the-outside/filthy-on-the-inside SUV. So it was not until morning that I discovered my bare driveway. Strange, I thought. I looked up and down my street, thinking, Did I park it somewhere else? Did one of my family members move it?

My son used to have an old orange Isuzu Amigo that could be started with a butter knife. When his friends discovered this, they started constantly fucking with him. He would come out of school or leave a party only to find his car gone, usually parked blocks away. He was constantly searching for it. Was this a similar situation, or was I having some sort of psychotic break? Did I have early onset Alzheimers? Was I a sleepwalker, capable of driving a car in a trance-like haze?

I called my husband and my daughter to see if they had taken my car without permission. They had not. When asked if they had noticed it in the morning when each had left the house, neither were sure. They are the most unaware people in the world.

“One of those dumb assholes stole my car and now they’re just sitting down there, enjoying the day, out in nature.”

Photograph by Matthew Suárez

I went inside and noticed my keys were not on our key hook. I pulled up the Find My Air Tag link on my phone, because my key ring has one on it. An address on 30th street came up. That’s when I knew the car had been stolen. That’s when I recalled that, like an idiot, I had left the car doors unlocked the night before, with my purse and keys inside. I retraced my steps from the following evening. I had gone to Sprouts. Aaron was helping our daughter with her physics homework, so I had carried all the bags in by myself. I busied myself putting the groceries away and cleaning out the fridge. I did some dishes. I poured myself a glass of wine. I let the dogs outside to pee. Afterward, I went downstairs to watch an episode of The Crown. I did not go back outside to retrieve my purse and keys, which were sitting like a gift on the center console. I am an idiot. I had invited this upon myself.

I called the police to report the car stolen. I gave them the address for my air tag. I doubt very much that they drove to that address in a squad car to check things out. I’m sure there were other crimes happening that superseded finding a car whose owner had left the goddamn keys inside in what amounted to an engraved invitation to have it stolen. But I would look for the car. I would drive there. I would have a showdown with the thief! At least that is what I told myself when I changed out of my pajamas, threw my hair into a messy bun at the nape of my neck, and shimmied into a pair of black jeans and a black hoodie. I meant business! Only problem was, I needed a ride.

I called my friend Nicole. She is always up for an adventure. “Do you want to find the person who stole my car?” I asked. Of course she did. Ten minutes later, she was at my door. She too was wearing all black, like a true vigilante. We even had on matching hoodies.

“We know how to dress to fight crime!” I said with a laugh She typed in the address for the current location of my air tag, and we were off.

“What should we do if we find the car?’ she asked.

I shrugged, “Sit on it? Call the police? Punch the thief in the face?” We both laughed at the absurdity.

It took only 15 minutes to get there. The location was in South Park, past all the fun restaurants and on the cusp of where North Park begins. Google Maps took us to a spot on 30th where there is a canyon on both sides of the road. Nicole turned down the first residential street and parked her car. We got out and walked. Looking down the canyon, we spotted a group of three people sitting on an old log.

We walked up and down the road, looking for the tag. After a few minutes, Nicole shouted, “I found it!” There in her hand was my white apple air tag.

Photograph by Matthew Suárez

“One of those dumb assholes stole my car and now they’re just sitting down there, enjoying the day, out in nature,” I told her.

Nicole laughed, “Do you really think so?”

“Yes!” I said, surprised at my own anger.

Just then, Aaron called. “I found the address to the air tag and I’m headed there!” he said, sounding excited.

“I’m already here,” I told him.

Aaron left his morning meeting early, after telling his coworkers what happened. They were following the saga like it was a telenovela. His coworker, Mikey, had offered to come with. “He is from Boston and doesn’t mess around,” Aaron said, “He offered to give me a bat! He has retrieved three stolen cars!” Before hanging up, Aaron made me promise I would not set the air tag off until he got there.

I really wanted to set off that tag.

I turned to Nicole with a sigh and said, “When Aaron gets here, I think we should walk down the canyon. When we get close to those people, we should set the air tag off.”

“Do you think maybe the thief threw the air tag out the window?” she asked, being sensible.

That possibility was too boring to be real, so I shrugged and pointed down the canyon at an outdoorsy looking couple who were walking their dog.

“It’s them,” Nicole hissed, playing along.

“Definitely! Thieves wearing Patagonia!” I chuckled.

When Aaron arrived, I pointed down the canyon at the log sitters and told him my plan. He too responded sensibly, “I’m sure the thief chucked the tag down this canyon once they noticed it.” Why was everyone trying to make this less exciting? He pulled up the air tag location again. It had moved slightly. There was a new address. It was around the corner. We got in Nicole’s car and drove. The address was a swanky house. Out front, a landscaper was trimming a bright pink bougainvillea. “Do you think it’s him? Should I set off the sound?” I suggested

Aaron let out an annoyed sigh. “They don’t always give the exact location. Your tag is in the canyon. It’s just pinging here.”

“So, you’re not going to rough that guy up?” I said with a smirk.

He rolled his eyes. None of this was amusing to him, poor guy. We parked and walked down the canyon. We passed by dog walkers with German accents. “Thieves!” Nicole hissed again with a laugh. She understood.

“I really think one of the log-sitters is the thief,” I said pointing to the group. When we got closer, it became evident that they were parks and recreation workers taking a break from clearing the canyon of debris. Out of breath, we walked up to the road. I checked the tag location again. This time it was pinging nearby.

I shouted to Aaron, “He left behind his erectile dysfunction pills!”
“We need to sell that car!” he shouted back in disgust.

Photograph by Siobhan Braun

“Like I said, it was definitely thrown from the window.” Aaron said knowingly.

We walked up and down the road, looking for the tag. After a few minutes, Nicole shouted, “I found it!” There in her hand was my white Apple air tag. It had been lying in a puddle. I activated it and was pleased to discover it still worked! A small victory.

Heading back to the car, Aaron asked, “You canceled your credit cards, right?”

I had not. In all my excitement over confronting the thief, I had forgotten to do that. I am an idiot. It was only 10 am, and the thief had already racked up nearly $1000 on my credit cards. I explained the car theft story to the phone operator at my bank.

“Their last purchase was 11 minutes ago at the Ross in Carmel Valley. I can give you the address?” he said, fully invested in our adventure.

“That’s okay,” I said, not wanting to take up anymore of Nicole’s time. “I would really like to punch this bozo in the face, but I doubt we’ll find them.”

“He should be punched for shopping at Ross.” the operator commented with a chuckle.

Later that day, Aaron informed me that since my car was “pretty old,” he had removed the comprehensive insurance. We would not be getting money back to cover the theft. “On the bright side, you do have an ebike,” he said.

Meanwhile, everyone had become a suspect: the utility worker checking the meters, the teenagers up the hill, and the solo jogger running down our dead-end street. When I took my pugs for a walk, I saw a disheveled looking man wearing a backpack and walking a pit bull without a leash. He was wildly out of place in my quiet corner of La Mesa. It looked like he was casing the neighborhood. I followed behind him for a block or two, keeping my distance, hoping he would lead me to my car. He did not.

My birthday was the on the 24th of January. I was hoping maybe my husband would surprise me with a new car or a retro-looking helmet to go with my ebike. Neither! But I did get a pretty leather purse and a sleek new wallet to replace the ones that had been stolen.

That night, I received a call from an unknown number. I did not answer. I never answer unknown numbers. Thirty minutes later, another call. Curious, I thought. I answered. “This is Agent So and So. We tried to call you earlier. We have located your car. It was parked illegally in Santee. No arrest has been made. We had it towed.” It was a birthday miracle!

The next morning, when the tow truck came to drop off my car, it felt like the arrival of a ticker tape parade. It was a moment deserving of a marching band and sparklers. Aaron and I stood in our driveway to greet it, and I wished the tow truck driver would throw candy at us from his window. Instead, I snapped a picture as he maneuvered it into its spot alongside our sedan. “The prodigal son has returned,” Aaron laughed.

Apart from the large stickers reading, “No parking” plastered on every window, it looked the same, perhaps even cleaner. It was as if the thief had gone through the car, been disgusted by my filth, and cleared the entire thing out. Everything was gone. My center console, which had been filled with papers, receipts, hand-drawn art, and letters from my preschool students, was empty. He had cut off the yarn-sunflower-and-rainbow I had dangling from my rearview mirror. My cute floral bumper sticker had also been removed. The Burberry scarf, my vintage 1980s Coach purse that I had scored at the Amvets near the airport, a pair of beat-up slip-on Vans, a puffy black winter jacket I had since the early 2000s — all gone. My Chapstick, sunscreen, spare deodorant, lotion, drugstore sunglasses, countless travel mugs, a couple of books — among them my favorite, Welcome to the Monkey House by Kurt Vonnegut — all gone. The only thing left behind that had belonged to me was a single velvet floral ballet flat, a beaded bracelet, snow chains in the trunk, and a pair of nail clippers.

Perhaps by way of cosmic compensation, the thief left behind a few of his own things. Among them, in the backseat: a white coffee cup that read “Bermuda” in jaunty Rasta colors. A dark brown moldy substance on the floor of the backseat. A shoe box for a size 11 men’s sandal, a receipt from Vons — where they had used my credit card to purchase a “decadent chocolate cake” and two $50 gift cards. Oh, and there was a strong odor: a mix of cigarettes, weed, and something fishy. Upon further inspection I found an opened can of crab meat under the driver’s seat, with remnants of crab still in it. And underneath the floor mats in the backseat, I found a couple of mystery pills with the letters AN and the numbers 351 on them. I carried them inside, did a quick google search, and found that they were used in treating erectile dysfunction.

I shouted to Aaron, “He left behind his erectile dysfunction pills!”

“We need to sell that car!” he shouted back in disgust.

I ignored him and said, “The thief had to be a hippie, right? The Bermuda mug, the sandals, the weed smell, the erectile dysfunction pills, and the decadent chocolate cake?”

“He was probably a junkie that lived in your car for the last week. There’s not a lot of hippies in Santee.”

But after all my frustrations — the lost scarf, the lost car, the failed attempt at catching the thief — I wanted my perp to be a down-on-his-luck old stoner. Just a guy, maybe one with a cute scruffy dog, who wanted to drive to the beach and catch a couple of sunsets. I couldn’t think of him any other way, especially since he had been out on my driveway, so close to where we slept. Anything other than a stoner was either too frightening or too gross to consider.

“Do you think he wears that Burberry scarf?” I asked.

Aaron sighed and handed me a print-out for a mobile detailing Groupon.