(You can read Part II of this story here)
When my car was stolen a little over a week ago, after the shock wore off, what made me angriest was the not knowing. The car itself was no great vehicle — over 20 years old, a sturdy and serviceable Honda that wasn’t going to win any beauty awards but got me around. (Now that I think about it, is my car a metaphor for my own middle-aged body?) I was shocked anyone would think it was worth stealing — until I learned that late 90’s Hondas are apparently the most stolen types of cars where I live (Portland, OR).
Initially, the not knowing was the worst. Would it be found mostly unharmed, parked on some random side street and sitting unused for months until some neighbor decided to call it in? Had it been driven out of state, never to be seen again? Was it totaled, sitting up on blocks somewhere having been cannibalized for parts? I kept turning the possibilities over in my mind, taking long walks around my quadrant of the city, winding up and down side streets hoping I’d come across it, and then going for long drives in my husband’s car (now our only car), anywhere I’d heard there were often abandoned vehicles.
People told me their own car theft stories. One friend knew someone whose car had been stolen in Portland and later turned up in Seattle, carefully parked and cleaned inside and out (freshly vacuumed!) with a note inside saying “Thanks for lending me your car.” Others had turned up mere blocks from where they were stolen, usually drivable, sometimes filled with trash and stolen items. And of course, some never turned up at all.
And then, after eleven days of eagerly answering my phone whenever an unknown number called, I got a call around 8pm from an Oregon state trooper, letting me know my car had been found dead on the side of a highway about fifteen miles from my house. He said it looked pretty rough — the sunroof had been fully broken, one door handle was missing, the battery was dead — but he didn’t know if it was drivable. He arranged to have AAA tow it to my house, which is when I “met” my car thief — or at least the detritus she left behind when I recovered my car.
The tow truck dropped it off at the curb, and I peered inside using a flashlight. The driver’s seat was leaning most of the way back. Piles of mess filled the passenger seat and much of the back. I could make out sparkly notebooks, high-heeled shoes, soda bottles, garbage, vape pens. In front of the steering wheel, a folded strip of photos — the kind from a photo booth — was tucked in the dashboard. Three little girls looked out, their faces scrunched together to fit in the picture, the middle one with a broad grin.
The sunroof was completely shattered. Only the barest shreds of its shatterproof glass clung to the perimeter. The passenger door handle was removed thoroughly, leaving only a sharp metal maw, gaping like a scream. Almost without thinking, I created a story: a woman and kids inside cowering as an angry man tried to break his way in first through the door, then the roof. I don’t know why I assumed the damage had been done by a man, but I knew from the interior that a woman had definitely been living in the car.
The next morning, armed with black trash bag, two layers of gloves, and wearing long sleeves and pants, I opened the car and started cleaning. I had expected I would find items stolen from other cars, and indeed, there were several car stereos, and a mysteriously large amount of cleaning supplies and automotive fluids. But there were also coloring books, notebooks, and a surprisingly neat box of colored pencils and pens. A cardboard sign asking for money to fix her broken car, the kind of sign people hold up at intersections. A few more photos of the same kids tucked into a folder. In the trunk, neatly labeled bins of clothing with a name: Corissa. In the front seat, amidst the bongs and vapes, there was an overwhelming stench of cigarette smoke mixed with the sweet tang of cleaning supplies (meth?) that permeated my mask. Under the front seat, a vibrator (thank god I was wearing gloves as I quickly dropped it in the trash!). A card with a code for a U-Store storage locker. More photos of kids, and a blank Valentine card. The whole scene was tawdry and disgusting and oh so sad.
Then there were the things that broke my heart. In one of the notebooks, in childish hand, a list for four people, with clothing sizes and other needs/wants. Household needs: King sheet. Bodywash. Baby wipes. Hangers, rug, lamp, phone charger. Such a modest list of items. It was the kind of list I’ve seen when I have done “Secret Santa” shopping for a homeless family around the holidays, and I imagined someone thoughtfully compiling this list of wants and needs. Then in another notebook, a signed homemade “contract” where (with first and last names! A clue!) someone named Corissa had given someone named Dustin five hundred dollars for their children and they both had signed the contract. When I read that, the story changed in my mind. Now Corissa was living alone in my car, on drugs, unable to care for her girls but keeping their picture close. Stealing money or turning tricks and periodically giving her baby daddy some cash to help raise the girls. She was still buying (or stealing) toys and sparkly notebooks for them, which is why I found some kid’s stuff in the car. Meanwhile, the girls were living with their dad.
But now I had names — first and last names! I had storage locker codes. A scrap of paper with two other names and phone numbers. I wondered if this was enough to assist the cops in tracking her down, although I suspected that with the number of car thefts and the lack of police officers, there probably was no one who would even follow up on anything no matter what I gave them. I also hesitated, having just spent the last month protesting the police and calling for defunding, which I truly believe is the right thing to do. Despite seeing the need for law enforcement in some cases, I honestly don’t think the cops and the justice system would be the right way to approach someone like Corissa and her family, in the highly unlikely event the cops even gave a damn about my detective work.
And if she was even the one who actually stole my car — and I have no proof that is the case — I feel more pity than anger for her now that I have looked through the remains of her life. Somehow, I doubt she was the one to sneak into my driveway and hotwire my car, although maybe she was; I’ll never know. But it seemed likelier that someone had stolen it and then given it to her to live in. Maybe Miguel? His was another one of the names in the notebook wish list, and there was a sappy greeting card he had signed professing his true love forever. Had he stolen my car and gifted it to his girlfriend to use as her home and drug den?
I ran to Google, wondering what I could find out — With two full names, I got a few hits off the bat. Dustin looked menacing, his Facebook page filled with vague threats about hos and bitches, but also a few photos of his adorable little girls — the same girls from the dashboard photo. But mostly he looked mean in his profile photo. I could imagine him smashing a hammer down on the top of my car over and over, trying to break into it. Dustin had a new girlfriend, and Corissa didn’t seem to have her own Facebook page. She did have an Instagram with only nine pictures, mostly of the kids. I started to follow links to the people who commented on her photos, and soon was down a rabbit hole chasing something, I’m not sure what. Did I expect I’d see a photo from the last week, someone smoking and posing in the front seat of my car? It didn’t happen, and eventually I got bored.
I’m sure Corissa is missing some of her things. I put everything on the curb with a FREE sign, and most of it is gone now as I write this. There was a jewelry box with several pieces of nice silver jewelry. A phone in the glove compartment. Sleep masks, new in the package (I guess when you live in a car, a sleep mask is handy to block out the streetlights). It was obvious to me Corissa had abandoned the car in a hurry when it broke down, without even a chance to go back and get her most precious belongings. I can picture her sobbing somewhere, knowing she’s lost the only few pictures she has of her kids, and maybe lost a ring or necklace of sentimental value. But I could not bear to have them near me for one moment longer than needed. I just wanted everything gone. I put up big signs: FREE. I threw whatever was left in the garbage.
I may have lost my car for good. It won’t start now, and it remains to be seen whether fixing it will cost more than it’s worth to keep my 1997 Honda on the road. Oh, I do so hope it can be salvaged, but I just have to wait and see. But here is what I didn’t expect: even though I felt genuinely angry when it was first stolen, now that it has come back to me, I feel more sad than anything else. Sad for me, without a car, of course. But also sad for Corissa, and Miguel, and even Dustin. Sad for those three little girls without a mom in their lives. Sad for all the people trying to stay afloat, living in broken-down cars and campers and tents on the side of the road, where at any moment a boot can kick in a tent, a hammer can smash in a car window. Sad that some people are violent assholes who hurt people. And sad that I don’t have a job, and now I likely don’t have a car.
(Note: You can read Part II, in which my car is stolen again!)