Year of the Robbers

My boyfriend and I have amazing taste in material items. It’s a proven fact. Statistically speaking, if someone forcibly acquired our stuff three different times during 2009, one can only deduce that we make awesome purchasing decisions. At least that’s the rationale I adopted this year.

For some people it’s the Year of the Ox; for my boyfriend and me, it’s the Year of the Robbers. Yes, three times during the last nine months we’ve been alleviated from some of our material possessions—meaning, we’ve had our shit stolen by selfish fools. It’s not a good sign when you’re familiar with the process of filing a police report and when renter’s insurance actually comes in handy. First it was our Midtown apartment: midday, locks broken, laptops, jewelry and a bright yellow San Diego Padres cap vanished. We still can’t get the fingerprinting dust off the walls.

Then it was my electric-blue mountain bike circa early 1990s, cut loose from a pole in front of SN&R.

So when the latest theft occurred this weekend, we remained surprisingly calm as we phoned the police. The weekend began wonderfully, with a date night at the River Cats baseball game on Friday night. Nothing beats $1 hot dogs, $7 Miller Lites and sixth-row seats between home plate and first base. Despite our cheering, the River Cats couldn’t score a run. So a drunken college-aged guy decided to play offense, repeatedly insulting Memphis first baseman Mark Hamilton with the misogynistic “You play ball like a girl,” and the equally eloquent “Your mom wants you home for dinner” or “You’re ugly, Hamilton.” Nice one. But when the visiting team is kicking the home team’s ass 6-0, the insults don’t stick. So, with each insult, Hamilton smiled at the crowd with a “We’re winning this game, you dumbass, and I’m getting paid to play” expression.

After the game, my boyfriend and I stopped by our usual Friday-night watering hole at Luigi’s Slice for a pitcher and shared a slice of pizza. By the time we got home, the idea of carrying my boyfriend’s bike up the stairs didn’t sound appealing. “I’ll just get it in the morning,” he said sleepily, so we left the bike in the car. Somewhere between falling asleep to Last of the Mohicans and 7:30 a.m., some punk broke into my boyfriend’s car and stole his bike, along with about $1.50 in dimes, nickels and pennies.

Statistically speaking, we’ve been robbed once every three months—and we still have three months left in this Year of the Robbers. Let’s hope the “things happen in threes” credo turns out to be true and this insanity is over. Maybe we just need to stop buying awesome stuff. But if you’re riding a black Trek mountain bike with hard-core trail tires or an electric-blue mountain bike with gears that don’t stick, don’t be surprised when a crazy SN&R writer runs you down.