Well, my loyal readers (are you out there???), I've made it 100 some odd days without a gunshot or knife wound. Unfortunately however, I did not make it completely unscathed. Last week, my cute little convertible (who is dumb enough to own a convertible, red no less, in the hood?) was stolen only footsteps from my front door. The list of suspects is long and grows with each new hoodlum that I spy in my daily travels. The odds of catching said thief? Dwindling by the millisecond...
My week began like any other in the D. I awoke Monday morning to the smell of coffee (compliments of Bruno) and the sound of undecipherable screaming emanating from my bedroom window. Just your standard a.m. affair. While sipping espresso and smoking my first cigarette of the day I slumped onto the couch and tried to get my eyes to focus through the crust left over from a night drowned out by my OTC sleeping pill of choice, benedryl. As the screaming escalated somewhere outside my humble abode, I remembered that I could no longer put off the dreaded talk that I had to have with my landlord. Today was to be the day. The "I want the fuck out of Detroit, and my lease, please" day.
Bruno and I made awkward movements throughout the house for much of the morning, neither of us comfortable with breaking bad news to others. We ran over our list of "why's", such as: we hate it here, there's a crack house across the street, it's not safe, some crazy homeless guy tried to break our front door down, etc. etc. By the afternoon we had worked ourselves into such a state of fear that we almost opted to delay The Talk and go grab cocktails instead. Almost. Then the crack heads started yelling again and we pushed through our fear.
Our landlord was actually quite nice about the whole thing. He understood. He's from the D so it doesn't scare him like it does us white folks from So Cal. He even had another place in the suburbs that we could move to without having to start up a new lease. The landlord was so nice; he wasn't even going to hold our deposit hostage for breaking out year lease (only 4 months into it...). Things were looking good in the lives of Gigi and Bruno.
The next morning began in much the same manner as the previous morning. Smells of coffee, sounds of crack heads, me on the couch picking crust out of my eyes. Bruno had to head into school so I kissed him good-bye and picked up I-Book to catch up on the latest Hollywood gossip (it's a guilty pleasure- back off!). No longer than 30 seconds had passed before the front door opened and Bruno came walking back in, stunned.
"What's wrong?" I inquired, barely taking my eyes off of the latest "Lohan Gets Fucked Up and then Fuck's Someone Her Dad's Age" story.
"The cars gone."
"What?"
"The cars gone. It's fucking gone."
"No fucking way!" I-Book was thrown aside at this point because frankly, I had my own real life drama going on and Lohan was no longer interesting. I ran out to the porch and found myself agreeing with Bruno. Yup, the car was fucking gone.
Something rather unfortunate happened at that moment. I finally snapped. Everything that Detroit had thrown at me over the past 4 months amounted to this. In this town, you cannot win. And like any madman (or madwoman) I threw my head back and tossed out an eerie peal of laughter. Laughter escalated over the rooftops of the dilapidated burned out homes all around me. I laughed so hard that tears ran down my face and I nearly choked on my own delirium.
I continued laughing when I called the insurance company. I laughed harder when I called the police station. I laughed the entire cab ride from my house to the rental car agency and I laughed when I signed away my life on the dotted line of the rental policy. I laughed while I sat in the police station waiting to fill out a report. I even laughed when giving the cop the details of the theft. The laughter didn't stop until these fated words were spoken by the attending officer:
"You had full coverage insurance so it shouldn't be a problem."
Full coverage insurance? You mean I need full coverage in order to be reimbursed for my dearly departed car? That isn't standard with my policy?
"I don't have full coverage insurance. Just the minimum that's required by the state." I had stopped laughing.
"You should probably speak with your insurance company then..." He looked apologetic, and I actually believe that he felt sorry for me. Shit, I felt sorry for me.
I can't really recall much of the hours or days that followed that. A blur of crack heads screaming and me staring off into space. That must be the second stage of grief. It is now a week later and I have a new car. I'm only in my apartment for 10 more days and I'm keeping my fingers crossed that this car won't be stolen. But hell, this is the D. It will probably be gone by tomorrow morning.
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