Picture, for a moment, yourself as a car thief. You stick to the shadows and are a master at making yourself ordinary, able to hide in plain sight. You’re a hunter in search of a prey.
Then you spot it, a silver 2000 Honda CRV on a dark stretch of 13th West. You peer into the front, transparent windows. Christmas lights are on the floor. A drawer sticks out under the passenger seat. Promising. Then there’s the obvious places for hidden gems, the glove box, an ashtray, seat back pockets and door shelves.
You move to the back windows. They’re tinted, always a sign of promise. There’s a bin, and some strewn about clothes. A cardboard moving box. Coupled with the out-of-state plates, this feels like a sign from God. Lots of treasures from a new Washington resident eager to move in but tired, and defeated, leaving a treasure trove for kleptomaniac hands to take and keep.
Salivating, you unlock the door, hands tingling, eyes hungry.
You rummage quickly, no use getting caught with prizes this good in sight.
You open the ash tray. Two loose dollar bills and some change await. You dump it into your bag. Already a success.
The bin under the passenger seat is next. You pull it out, and dump it in the seat. There’s a dictionary of various Christian traditions. A greeting card with a dog on it (No money inside). Deodorant. Lotion. A comb. Another thing of lotion. Nail clippers. Oh my god how much lotion can one person have?! An old pay stub from last November. Nothing.
The foreplay is over, you’ve fantasized about the contents of the boxes and bins. It’s time to dig in. The first box, the cardboard is tragically, shockingly empty, save for a loose piece of trash, a candy wrapper.
The bin is also empty, but you spot a gift bag. Canadian cookies, a sweatshirt from a museum, and a old (magical, sisterhood of the traveling pants style jacket… but you wouldn’t know that) are inside. What a disappointment.
You think to look under the seats. Two discarded Taco Time tomatoes stare back at you. The owner of this car is disgusting.
You finally open up the glove box. It overflows with napkins. So. Many Napkins.
You tear through them to try and get to the bottom. There has to be something good. A car registration (expired). A copy of insurance. A page detailing a booking to a Hostel in Canada (no personal information 😦 Of course). An “in memory of” picture of a young bearded guy. Somehow more napkins.
And then, your heart beats faster. Car keys. Must be spares. Surely they can’t be so old the owner of the car has no idea whose the are or where they go. That would be ludicrous. Surely they belong to this very car.
You jam it into the ignition and turn. Nothing.
Dejected, you hang your head and walk away. At least you’ve left a bit of a mess. So much effort, so many hopes and dreams begun. Then shattered.
You’re a car thief. You’ve had a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day thanks to a lowly writer who keeps nothing but interesting junk and food wrappers just past his easy-to-open car doors.
Bryce’s debut collection can be purchased here. 25% of the profits go to organizations like RAINN, 1in6, and End The Backlog. He writes short stories for free here. Support him by purchasing your next book through this special link and get FREE worldwide shipping.
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