Return of the Precious Poppets

I got up early (for me on a Saturday). I woke around eight o’clock. The alarm was set to go off at nine (I have to take my pills then), and when I couldn’t get back to sleep by 8:30 I decided to just get up, take my pills, and mess about on the computer until I either felt tired again or felt like starting my day.

I was wearing my usual first-thing-in-the-morning attire. I had on my t-shirt style nightgown from the Metropolitan Opera that had Edward Gorey’s “Die Fledermaus” print on it and my used-to-be-fluffy-many-years-ago comfy black slippers. I sat by the window at my keyboard, devising clever comments for people who really hadn’t asked for my opinion. I occasionally glanced outside to watch the drizzle that the weather forecasters actually accurately predicted, while Clueless Wonder watched whatever it is that cats watch from the window sill when nothing is out there.

It was Clueless who first alerted me to the fact that something more than invisible bunny rabbits had appeared on the scene. As he straightened up to his full sitting height and pressed his nose to the glass, I too pressed my nose closer to the window and looked down to see two young boys walking up into our section of the parking lot. They were perhaps nine years old (I’m lousy at estimating age, but they were definitely pre-teen anyhow).

One of the boys pointed to The Socialist’s car and they both went over to inspect it. One ducked down at the back tire, and the other ducked down at the front tire. At this point both were on the opposite side of the car, and I couldn’t see them. I was laughing to myself that The Socialist had yet two more fans for his fancy wheels. I don’t know what it is about Y-chromosomes and chrome wheels, but it seems to be an almost universal fascination.

As I watched, the two boys got up and came to the side of the car facing me. They again bent down, and I remember thinking that this was getting ridiculous because all four wheels are identical. Then I saw the boy nearest to me reach out for the tire.

That was all I needed to see. I tore downstairs, grabbed the first coat I could find in the closet (a white warmup jacket made of crinkle material, with sky blue and lime green striping on it) and tore outside. The boys were walking away from the car at this point. I knew something was not kosher, so I called out to them, “What were you two doing with those wheels?” One boy called out, “Nothing, we were just looking at them.” Both boys took off at a run and headed to the back of our complex.

If they hadn’t broken out into a run, I might have actually gone back inside without investigating. But nobody runs off like that unless they have a guilty conscious, so in spite of my state of dress I walked over to the Matrix and checked it out. All four tire stem caps were missing.

Yes, it’s a petty nuisance. Yes, they only cost a couple bucks to replace. Yes, I’m sure the kids didn’t have any real malicious intent. They were just bored on a rainy day and since the apartment complex’s swing sets were wet and their basketball court was slippery and their pool was closed, they did the only thing left for them to do: mischief. I don’t care. They stole from me (while I stupidly and naively watched on) and then they lied to my face about it.

I was inside, dressed, and back outside in record time. One doesn’t dress that quickly or when in that big of a snit without making a commotion, and so I managed to wake up The Socialist, who is either suffering from allergies or the beginning stages of a cold. The Matrix is the Socialist’s pride and joy, and my rage quickly ignited his as well. Within a minute, we were both outside, and I was running down the route that I had last seen the junior hoodlums take.

Oh, I was good. I asked neighbors which way they went. When the trail ran out, I started investigating doorways, looking for little wet footprints leading up to each of the doors of the apartments. I walked nearly all the way to the back or our complex. It was in vain. The poppets had escaped.

I have lodged a complaint with the apartment management, who can do nothing about it, but I figured still needed to know in case there were additional complaints. I’m still debating lodging a complaint with the police. I fear I am in danger of becoming that neighbor lady you speak of in hushed tones as an adult. “Remember that time Alfie and me were out walking through Mrs. Bertha’s flower bed and she came out in curlers and pink bunny slippers with a rolling pin in her hand and chased us all the way down the lane?” If I have no other reason to harbor ill feelings towards these little instars, I resent them for turning me into this.