Friday, April 15, 2005

My name is the Bookhouse Boy, and I am a victim.

One Sunday morning in 2003, I woke up to find my car was not parked in front of my apartment. I drink, so I walked around the block to make sure I hadn't forgotten where I parked it, but no, it was gone. I called the cops, I called my girlfriend, I called my parents. And eventually the cops showed up. Well, one did, anyway, and he took the report from his car.

"What are the odds of me getting it back?" I asked.

"Oh, you'll get it back," he said. "The question is, what will it look like?"

Over the next few days, I told a lot of people about my missing car. "Welcome to St. Louis" was the general reaction. One person I didn't call was my insurance agent, because I didn't have one.

Four or five days later, I got the call. My car had been found ... or rather, my car had been run to ground. In St. Louis, they don't chase stolen cars; they don't think it's worth the risk. They have no such policy in wild and wooly East St. Louis, where a cop checked the plates on my car, realized it was stolen and gave chase (cue music). The perps bailed in an alley; one was caught (I never heard if he was charged with anything; I assume he wasn't).

So they towed my car to a dingy old lot where I had to pay a couple of hundred dollars for no reason except they had my car and I didn't. "There's some stuff in the car," the wizened old bitch behind the counter said. "Don't think it's yours." And she laughed a laugh so mottled that I assume she's dead now.

She was right, most of the stuff in the car wasn't mine. Gone were my Star Wars DVDs, my copy of From Hell (I hope the bastards at least read it). New to my car was a half-empty pint of gin, a half pack of Newports and some CDs. There was ash in the ashtray, but no more than anywhere else. I, who had smoked in the car for three years, was disgusted by the stale smoke smell. In my mind, a carload of thieves exhaled their Newport smoke directly into the fabric of the car, with all the windows rolled up.

And then there was the clothes. Strewn about the back seat were several ... words fail ... whore outfits. "Lingerie" is not appropriate to describe the cheap, diaphanous wisps of befouled fabric that some woman had left behind. The crotches were crusty, every backside was a string. These weren't just stripper clothes ... they were stripper clothes for that stripper on the pole at that strip club that you stumble into drunk, then back out as soon as possible to get away from the draped labia and gravity-vanquished breasts. The clothes were gross.

There was a nice pair of stripper shoes as well, clear heeled ("When did clear heels become 'whore shoes?' Chris Rock has asked.) with fake $100 bills set into them. I kept one, just to remember "The Time My Car Got Stolen And Some Gin-Swilling, Newport Smoking Whore or Really Cheap Stripper Lived in My Car."

And then, two days later my transmission exploded because the damn bastards had run over something and cracked the transmission fluid case. It cost me $1,800 to fix.

And that's what being a victim is all about. Happy Victim's Week!


Anonymous Anonymous said...


I am writing just to ask if you are meaning that all strippers are whores or if just this particular one because you found them in your stolen car and were nasty???
Because, I happen to be a former stripper, strip club owner and I sell a large range of stripper clothes and clubwear, including clear platform heels, and by know means is a person who strips and wears these clothes is a whore.


5:31 PM  

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