I love you, New York. But my car has had enough
I thought it would be enough.
I drove a nondescript car. Surely, no one would want to steal a Saturn. I’m not sure they even make them anymore?
I figured it was so bland that no one would bother with it. That it wouldn’t bother anyone. Who would feel compelled to vandalize it? It would certainly not make someone envious, it isn’t flashy enough to make people think it’s driver was some pompous douchebag.
But I love this car. It’s got excellent gas mileage, it’s been so reliable, and it’s one of the few things I feel connects me to my father, as he was its original driver.
But today, this:
I’m writing this as I stand here on the sidewalk, awaiting the police to come take my report.** I had no idea that I would feel so betrayed by this action.
I wasn’t hurt. Nothing was irreparably damaged. But this bothers me more than I expected it to. I am almost ashamed to abuse the word, but this feels like a violation.
I like living in New York City. I like living in the Bronx. And I know this smacks of selfish arrogance, but my city just broke its unspoken covenant that, beyond the inconveniences of crowded city living, it wouldn’t make me regret being here.
I live in the real world. I know there are bad people who do bad things, I know there are stupid people who do stupid things. I know this thing that happened to me, on the scale of human misery, is closer to hangnail than murder.
In the 16 years or so I’ve lived in NYC. This is the worst thing that’s happened to me.
Then again, maybe it’s not so bad.
*As I’ve been standing here, a man walking his dog stopped to let me know that the car was like this yesterday afternoon, so more like middle of the day than dead of night. Still sucks.
**Still waiting for the police. No complaints about not being a high priority. This is NYC. There’s almost always something worse going on.