Break-In Breakdown

I suppose I can't really call it a break-in, per se - I neglected to lock the doors on the Flex when Glory and I came back from the dog park on Sunday, so when I opened the vehicle this afternoon, I discovered the remaining contents of the glove box and console strewn across the seats.

The thief or thieves were remarkably thorough; they even pinched the zippered folio containing the owner's manual (which in turn contained my insurance and registration documents). The seat pockets were likewise emptied and the enormous sunshade for the window lay open on the floor of the back seat.

It wasn't too messy, but a quick inventory revealed that I was also missing a 10' USB charging cord, a multi-tool (from Grand Rapids Industrial Products) I got over a decade ago from Audrey's older sister and her husband, all the maps from the glove box, and my prescription sunglasses.

Surprisingly, the culprits left behind two packets of gum, all the shopping bags in the back, a Starbucks gift card and some mostly loaded McDonald's coffee cards, two pairs of gloves and a folding umbrella. They also overlooked the tiny green flashlight that clips onto a hat brim and a number of headlamps in the passenger seat pocket.

Most of the missing items are just stuff - not too convenient to be without, and easily enough replaced, but I still find it tremendously galling. Who the hell steals an owner's manual?! I am one of the few people who actually read them, as far as I am aware. And likewise the prescription sunglasses -  I hope they give a headache to whoever ends up with them.

But I am most disappointed with myself. Not for the carelessness of leaving the doors unlocked, although that grinds my gears something fierce - no, it is the fact that my anger at being burgled is intense enough that I can easily imagine visiting horrific violence upon the perpetrator.

The italicized portion below contains just some of what I envisioned, and contains some applied atavism as well as some unpleasant revelations about just what kind of person I might actually be; read on if you dare!

I imagine spotting them through the living room window on my way to bed; I step to the door, but pull my hand back before touching the door handle. Narrowing my eyes, I determine the individual rifling through my belongings is in no hurry, so I quietly rush into the bedroom and grab the police-style baton from under the bed. With 24 inches of solid, twin-handled oak in my hands, I make my way back to the front door, stopping again in order to flick off the switch for the porch light.

Quietly depressing the handle, I slowly and smoothly push open the storm door we had installed only a month ago. Stepping gingerly out on to the front stoop. the motion-sensitive light does not illuminate when I step in front of its sensor, and I quietly descend the steps.

For a fellow who dresses out at an eighth of a ton, I have surprised many people with how quietly I can move, especially when squeaky floors or crunchy leaves are taken out of the equation. I am wearing slippers with a plastic sole, but take care in my steps so as not to make any errant scratching or scuffing noises.

The pillager has their back to me and is leaning in through the passenger door and reaching across to the pockets in the driver's side door. I hear them curse after removing an umbrella and dropping it on the driver's seat. As they move back to the glove box, I move into position behind them and to their left, just out of view. A cold and cynical part of my brain has recognized the need for a viable self-defense story - "I startled him breaking into my car, constable, and when he attacked me, I defended myself..."

I raise the baton in a two-handed grip, plant my feet and yell, "Hey!" at a considerable volume. I have startled people by accident with nothing but my voice and a quiet approach, so the effect when I do it intentionally is considerable.

The thief jetks upright suddenly, hitting their head on the doorframe as they try to extricate themselves from the vehicle. Turning to face me, they see a club in my hands and raised above my head, so they instinctively raise their hands to protect their face, but I am already swinging the baton towards their midsection. They drop their arms, but too late to do more than deflect it a little. 

The baton glances off their hipbone with a sickening crack and solidly impacts their midsection. With a grunt, they start to double over, one hand clutching at their stomach, the other reaching out to grab my weapon, which is already pulling back out of their reach.

Reaching out with my left hand, I push their right arm out of the way as I raise the club above my head. I am ecstatic to have a clear shot at their face and neck as the baton makes its descent...

And I am going to stop right there.

There is a scene in Pulp Fiction when John Travolta's character Vincent Vega laments his car being keyed by an unknown individual. He goes on to say, "It woulda been worth him doin' it, just so I could've caught him doin' it."

I think a lot of us can relate to that sentiment, but I never thought of myself as that person. Threaten my wife, harm or intimidate my daughters? There is likely to be trouble, and I accept that if I followed my instincts in a scenario like that, there is real potential of my going to jail or even prison.

But the realization that I am clearly prepared to unleash a frankly disproportionate level of violence because I don't like my stuff being taken was unsettling to me. Don't get me wrong, it was kind of fun to write and there is a sliver of righteousness in my indignation and defence of property. But the reason I ended my description where I did is because I am not sure when I would stop.

Or if I would, for that matter.  

How can I talk about my faith one minute, with its ideals of grace, and justice, and reconciliation, and throw it all away the next minute because my privacy has been violated? Is that infringement worth sending someone to the hospital? Is it worth a criminal record and a reputation of violence for me? 

When a brick comes through my window a year later, do I assume it came from my thief, or dismiss it as a random incident? What about a Molotov cocktail? A neighbour's house was hit with one before we moved into this neighbourhood and it stood vacant for over a year's renovations. How much time do I spend looking over my shoulder for comeuppance?

And the thief - what if they were a teenager running away from an abusive home? A residential school survivor? Someone with severe mental health issues?

In the end, as burned up as I am about the pilfered items (the owner's manual! did you know you can get a better trade-in for your vehicle if you have the original one? grr!), my nature is to focus on gratitude again.

Gratitude that it was only stuff, and that no damage was done to the vehicle. Nothing irreplaceable was taken, and I have already replaced the registration. No one got hurt. I am grateful for many of the items that were left behind, especially that little light that clips to my hat - it's so handy when camping.

And mostly I am grateful that I didn't catch the perpetrator in the act, and perhaps put a greater tragedy into motion.

Mostly.