Home Invasion

It is no secret that my laptop and I have been on the outs for some time now. I always thought one day my lappy would go peacefully in its sleep; I would turn it off and it would never wake back up again. My PC was already on life support, since the battery was shot a long time ago. The power supply cord became something of a life-line or oxygen supply. Viruses plagued it for the past year and my hopes for any sort recovery were waning. I saw my computer buzzing and awake for the last time on Sunday afternoon. Just like that, it was gone. Literally.

My neighborhood sits on the border of the hood. Not like there are gun shots ringing out every five minutes, not usually anyway, but it’s more of a transitional neighborhood. I live just north of El Cajon Blvd. in San Diego, which I consider to be comparable to 8 Mile in Detroit. Sometimes I think Eminem will breeze by my home to visit his trailer on the other side of the tracks. This has yet to happen, but I do see some tweeker meth heads wandering over to the convenience store on the north side of El Cajon to get a fresh forty ounce in a paper bag at 8 am. If you continue north of my block you will find yourself in a lovely family neighborhood with expensive houses and white picket fences. The two blocks between where I live and where the vehicle of choice is a luxury car differ by about 200-300K. This isn’t particularly unusual in a city and definitely not unusual for my choice of living locations. I have never felt unsafe in my home, but I certainly wouldn’t wander around at night alone.

The characters in my hood are all friendly enough. There isn’t anyone I would invite over for a dinner party or meet after work for drinks. Then again, I don’t think many of them work. Not in the traditional sense anyway. I do, however, exchange polite acknowledgements when I’m out with the dogs or walking to and from my car. There are several people who I consider to be self-elected neighborhood watch committee. They may not do anything about suspicious activity, but they definitely are outside enough to witness should anything usual happen.

Across the street is a Vietnamese couple who speak very little, if any, English. My lack of employment since moving to San Diego has supplied me copious hours of people watching time to learn about my neighbors without actually having to speak to them. The Vietnamese wife isn’t outside much, but her husband is permanently posted on the sidewalk in front of their house chain smoking. Occasionally he moves his minivan, manufactured circa 1992, to and from its parking space to a better one. Every so often I have tried to watch him to see if he does anything besides suck down one cancer stick after the next. These stake outs have ended in me either getting bored or falling asleep. My conclusion is that the Vietnamese man across the street is intently watching over the block for suspicious activity. Or at least I thought so, until last Sunday.

About a half a block north of my house is a small apartment building of fairly low income housing. This is home of the Mikes. The Mikes are “cousins”, or so they say. I actually think they are strictly business partners who pose as family members. I’m also not completely convinced Mike is either of their names. Regardless, they always say hi, though they refer to me as George Washington, my alma mater and, not coincidentally, the words printed on the ass of a pair of shorts I was wearing once when I walked by with the dogs one afternoon. Although I don’t want to sit in front of the Mikes’ apartment building smoking blunts and drinking forties, I do like to maintain an affable relationship with them should I someday decide to film a documentary on ways of the street life. Though I can’t be certain, I find the title “Friendly Neighborhood Drug Dealers” to be appropriate for the Mikes. It is possible they are trust fund babies living off of old family money, spending their days being visited by a myriad of ever changing acquaintances while drinking cheap brews because they just prefer Ice House and Old English to more posh brands. I try not to judge. The point is that if something goes down in the neighborhood, the Mikes know about it. They know everyone that lives on the block, their general schedule, and what kind of car they drive. Once I left my car lights on only to get a prompt knock at my door from one of the Mikes who was concerned my battery would die. That practically defines good neighbor. I really don’t care how the Mikes fund their lifestyles as long as they are watching the block.

This rundown of the characters in my hood brings me to the topic at hand. My roommate and I were robbed last Sunday morning-ish. Both of us being a little scatter-brained, we didn’t realize that our stuff was missing until late in the afternoon. By that time, my computer had likely secured a retirement home to spend its last days of life somewhere in Mexico; wiped clean of my old college papers and folders of photographs, sipping margaritas and watching the sunset over Tijuana. At least I hope that’s what happened. The alternative of my laptop being deemed worthless and chopped into pieces and thrown into a garbage bin with other worthless items is about as depressing as Jessica Simpson’s love life. As my computer enjoys a final permanent vacation, free of my frustrated hands tearing letters off the keyboard when they get jammed and my incessant, vulgar and abusive language directed at its uselessness, I sit here contemplating the idea of how karma just bit me in the ass for not appreciating my HP.

The robbery was just another example of how my excessive drinking habits impact my life. Another typical Saturday night at the bar left me nursing a hangover Sunday morning. After an hour of moaning in bed about how much my head hurt, I convinced my aging lover to mobilize down the street to get me Advil. I heard him in the living room talking to my roommate for a few minutes before I stumbled out to remind him that he didn’t get up for a morning chat and to continue his journey to the corner store. That took up most of my energy, so I took a little rest on the sofa to whine to my roommate about my hangover. She didn’t seem to care much and was about to leave for the gym. The thought of physically activity at this point was enough to put me over the edge. I headed back to the safety of my bed, far away from treadmills and aerobics classes.

The rest of the morning is a blur, but from what we have been able to piece together my boyfriend returned with Advil, roommate left for the gym, a random guy came in the front door and grabbed our laptops, the dogs started barking, our visitor continued into my roommate’s bedroom where he emptied her gym bag to store his new treasures, then he finished off his morning errands by taking her ipod and a digital camera. While the robber had an eventful and successful Sunday morning, I successfully brought drinking to a new level. I was actually so hung over that I didn’t notice I was being robbed in the middle of the day while in my own home. During this time frame I was texting a friend to inform him I would not be making it to brunch that morning in fear of vomiting on the table. I know karma can be a bitch, but I don’t think skipping Hash House brunch and being robbed are a fair karma tradeoff.

Now we will fast forward to the evening. After my roommate finally told me her work computer was stolen and I noticed my archaic lappy was gone too, we called the police. Shortly after, a few officers showed up at our house. Much top my disappointment, they didn’t even dust for fingerprints. I was hoping for crime scene tape, forensic photographers, Lenny Brisco, and a full scale investigation comparable to what I have watched so many times on Law and Order. The officers asked us if we were aware that we lived in a bad neighborhood. No shit Sherlock. If we didn’t think anything of the fact we regularly see drug busts on our block and hear choppers overhead blasting warnings of criminals on the loose, then we were definitely made aware of the shade factor when someone walked into our home in broad daylight and snagged our swag.

The police did about as much as the Mikes, who when questioned said they were not around that day. My roommate intercepted them on their way home from the liquor store after refreshing their beverages. I can’t imagine what the Mikes were doing on a Sunday afternoon that tore them away from their post in front of the apartment building. I don’t think they typically go to church or a stroll in the park, but I don’t like to make assumptions about peoples’ personal lives. My mother suggested that they could be the thieves, but that seems unlikely since the Mikes business is booming as far as I can tell. We wanted to question the Vietnamese chain smoker, but he doesn’t speak any English. His smiles and waves don’t add much to our investigation, so we decided to leave him out to avoid any confusion.

On a positive note, the police did inform us of a neighborhood super hero named Mr. Xtreme. He could have been a little more creative with the name, but I like his enthusiasm for fighting crime. Mr. Xtreme can be found on You Tube and even wears an embroidered cape. Although he can’t fly or read minds, he can distract criminals with his absurdity. I respect him for his efforts and am debating submitting an application as his assistant. I could be Fanny Pack Girl and keep my supplies for fighting corruption and evil doings in an easily accessible pack on my fanny. This job may interfere with my drinking habits, so I may save a hero career path for a time in my life that is more conducive to responsibility.

Overall, I can’t say I am too upset about my laptop being stolen, with the exception of the disappointment I endured to lose three months worth of writing that I had yet to back up. I nanny a five-month-old boy to earn some consistent cash and his parents lent me a computer while I figure out what to do next. It has a photo of the couple in the hospital with their newborn as the screen background. This has given me a new source of entertainment when people ask about the family in the photo. I like to tell them that I just found the picture on the internet and thought it looked like a nice picture to look at and dream about my own future family. This laptop is already exceeding my expectations; crushing all of my optimistic beliefs that my old PC wasn’t a complete hunk of shit. I now lay my missing PC to rest with a few final words.

Dear Laptop,

We went through a lot together. Though I did talk a lot of smack about you, I do appreciate all you did for me over the years. I hope you enjoy your retirement in Mexico. Tonight, I will pour out some of my vodka for you, my homie. I wish you the best, but I sort of pity the idiot who stole you because you are more trouble than you are worth.

With Love,
Mya