I can't stomach the thought of it: my child's a thief. Nice thief. Pretty thief. Academic achiever thief. But, yes, a thief nonetheless.
What's the young pirate's booty of choice? My bedroom slippers.
I can't go a day without having to search the house for my bedroom slippers after one of her visits. Mind you, she's got big feet, but not big as mine. She's got great taste, but not the same taste in clothes. She just likes it because it's mine!
Some people say I ought to be grateful. I dunno. When I get home from work, I like to drop my bag, get a shower, and step out into cushy living as my lifestyle affords. Which isn't THAT cushy, you see. These bedroom slippers: they're like my polo gear, my automatically warming toilet seat, or whatever item you indulged beyond your means when you noticed some extra bucks in your budget that time. And she comes over, and wears them, and then hides them somewhere I can't instinctively find them.
Yes, of course, I understand the part about how she must love her daddy if she's putting her clean toes where my stinky toes go. It surely gives her some comfort to walk in my shoes the way I liked walking in my dad's shoes or smelling my mom's perfume when she was out of the room. I get it. It, you know, warms my cackles a bit. Sure.
But then I have to confront the thievery, yes? Where'd she get that? From me?
I only stole twice. First time was in fourth grade, when Vick and I stole magnifying glasses from Mrs. Armstrong's science stash so that we could burn leaves (and, ok, other students' hands). That was purely recreational. Second time, I didn't even KNOW it was stealing.
What did I steal? A car. But really, the guy was asking for it.
I had reserved a zipcar in the same garage as this guy's car, right. So I go to pick up the car. I follow the green signs to the zipcar parking space. I'd reserved a mini Cooper. I arrive on the floor with the zipcar sign pointing to the right, and when I look to the right, there's the green mini Cooper. A convertible, no less. As I approach, I notice the window is half open, and sticking my head in, I can see the key right on the driver side mat.
That was a little curious - usually the zipcar key is hanging by a string from the dash. The string broke, I figured.
Anyway, I check around the car for damage (one of zipcar's four simple rules), and I checked the driver side visor for the gas card. (Zipcars are awesome. For a few bucks an hour, you can drive up to 180 miles, and use their gas card for as many fill-ups as needed. You just have to return the car to the same space at or before the end of your reservation time.) Credit card in visor? Check! I was more concerned about the parking garage exit keycard, and I found it in the visor, too. Off I go!
After watching my daughter's softball game, and taking her for fast food, I drove the Cooper back to the garage in the nick of time! It was a fun ride. Someone had even left Scorpion CD's in the glove compartment! It's not my usual cup of tea, but I was rockin' and cruising! And stealing.
When I arrived back at the garage, it took me a minute to locate the garage card key. While at the entrance, which was blocked by one of those bars that the garage attendant raises up and down if you can't find your garage key, a guy calls over to me. I've got the top down but the music is blasting, so I turn down the volume.
"Hey, how do you like that car?"
"It's great," I say.
"Oh, yeah. How long you had it?"
"A couple of hours. It's not mine. It's a zipcar. I'm taking it back upstairs to the space. It lives here!"
"Yeah, I know," the guy says. And I notice two other guys trailing behind him: a younger white guy who looks mad, and a black guy with a garage attendant type shirt on.
"What do you mean? You have one?" I say.
"That's my car right there, so why don't you just pull over," he says.
"Man, what? This is a zipcar. Here's my zipcard. I'm parking upstairs. Here's the parking pass, and here's the gas ... card ... What's your name?"
And he told me his name, and it was the name on the gas, um, credit card that was in the visor! I kid you not, I didn't know I had stolen his car.
The younger guy starts to talk: "The cops are on their way."
"Well, I'm just gonna pull over to the side here and be on my way," I tell them.
"No, you should wait for the cops," the young one says.
I get my stuff out of the vehicle as quickly as I can. I stand up. I even hand the owner my business card, telling him to call me if he has any questions, and giving him the zipcard number, too. "Call them to verify that Sean Chambers had a mini Cooper reserved on the fourth floor during these hours today. Call them. You'll see. I'm no thief. You take it easy."
And I started to leave the garage.
I did have one question I had to ask: "The keys were in the car. The window was open. I didn't break into the car, you know that, right?"
"Yeah, I know. My wife is always kicking me about doing that," says the older guy.
"Well, I didn't drive far, I didn't use your card, no damage, no harm, no foul."
"Maybe you should wait," he says.
"I'm out. Call me if you need me," I say. And I was gone.
The moral to the story is that just because stealing occurs doesn't make it theft: cars, bedroom slippers...
That's the moral, right?
What was I talking about, again?
