Friday, February 26, 2010

My Mission: Find the T-Machine or Die Trying

I call it my “T” machine, short for a Toshiba Satellite model number L305D-S5934 in midnight blue.

It’s not the sleekest model, nor as cute and snazzy as my burgundy work computer, but I own it.

Beyond that, we have a relationship. I like how solid it feels in my lap and I enjoy how it seems to open up to me when I flip up the top. It waits for me to communicate and then it takes me on a ride down the information superhighway, guiding me as I traverse the perilous Autobahn where one false move can result in information overload.

But my “T” machine makes sure I can handle it. Or at least it did.

At the moment, the T-machine is gone, stolen by a greedy opportunist who smashed the window of my car to snatch it, along with my red, Samsonite travel bag, my hot pink Sony camera, assorted female paraphernalia, and a piece of my heart.

The police officer who took the report was nice enough. He had puppy dog eyes and I had to resist the urge to give him a hug. Something about him was sweetly world weary and he seemed like he needed comforting more than I did.

“What good does it do to steal a computer if the thief doesn’t have the password to logon?” I asked.

“Usually they take it to someone who wipes the hard drive and then they sell it to a pawn shop,” he replied.

I liked the “erase the hard drive” part in the sense that I didn’t want a stranger gaining access to my personal information, but at the same time, I hated the idea that some stranger could so easily wipe out some irreplaceable files, photos, music, and documents for illicit profit.

According to the police, pawn shops cooperate by reporting pawned merchandise and checking to see if items have been reported stolen. I had my doubts. Pawn shops might check before buying something, but they pay money up front so they really have no motivation to catch stolen merchandise once they’ve paid for it. And it took me an extra day to look up my computer’s serial number, so I figured that, by then, it was a done deal.

Determined, I used my lunch hour to call a couple of nearby pawn shops, concentrating on those with the easiest access to the crime scene, i.e., work’s parking lot.

The person at the first pawn shop said he didn’t carry notebook computers. At the second pawn shop, I asked if they had Toshiba notebook computers and the person who answered the phone said yes.

“Did you get any in the past couple of days?”

“Yes.”

I felt hope rising--and Barack Obama was no where in sight.

“Well, I had a Toshiba notebook computer stolen and I’m trying to track it down. Could you tell me if it’s the right model number?”

“Well, we have a lot of Toshiba computers, how am I supposed to know which one is yours unless you have the model number and s-n?”

“I do have the model and serial number.”

Suddenly, she shut down. She wouldn’t offer any information other than that they deal with the police department’s pawn unit.

So I called the police department and asked to speak to the pawn unit.

“We don’t give that number out,” said the rude person who answered the phone, parroting back to me the script about the supposedly cooperative relationship that pawn shops have with the police. “Do you understand,” she asked me condescendingly before hanging up.

“Yes, I understand,” I said, but I was thinking, “Yes, I understand that you’re uncooperative and just want to get me off the phone and you’re parroting information of dubious veracity. Do YOU understand?”

So off to the pawn shop I went.

The pawn shop was located at 424 33rd St, just off of Greenmount, an area where I usually wouldn’t go by myself. I maneuvered around mounds of dirty snow from Snowmageddon to finally find a parking space about 2/3 blocks from the pawn shop. While striding down Greemount in one direction, three gangsta-looking guys came toward me from the other direction with their “pants on the ground.” One guy was barreling toward me with one of his hands down the front of his low-riding pants. Under ordinary circumstances, I would have been intimidated, but not now. I was driven. “Excuse me,” I said politely, but there was an under-current of determination. In the end, they were probably more intimidated by me than I was by them because I was on a mission, propelled with all the righteous power of Moses about to part the Red Sea. And part they did.

I entered the pawn shop and confirmed that I was in the right place. “Are you the person who just called?” asked one of the clerks. “Yes,” I said, and her tone immediately became scornful. “And you’re so sure that your computer is here?”

“Well, yes. As a matter of fact, I do think so,” I said. “I’m looking for a dark blue Toshiba notebook computer, model number ….” I rattled off the model number and the list of other stolen items. I could sense recognition, even though they didn't acknowledge it.

“What’s the name?”

“How would I know the name of the person who smashed my car window and stole my stuff?”

Now that I was in the pawn shop I was surer than ever. I could tell by their duplicitous glances and closed attitudes. They absolutely refused to cooperate and it was obvious they were hiding something. Beyond that, it was like I had Lojack for Laptops in my soul and I could feel the T-machine calling out to me. I also felt spiritual opposition. It was so strong that it was physically palpable, almost as if it were pressing against me and trying to push me back. I wouldn’t budge.

Again, they gave me the same line about only working with the police pawn unit. “I called the police department and they said they don’t give that number out,” I said. So in a move that they probably thought would get rid of me, one of the clerks gave me the pawn unit phone number, but instead of leaving, I dialed the number on the spot.

I explained the whole situation to the police officer who answered but he said that no pawn shops had reported getting notebook computers in the past couple of days. That didn’t align with what the clerk had told me on the phone so I asked the officer to please investigate Famous Pawns on 33rd Street, and he said that he would.

The officer had a laid-back, sexy, sonorous, Barry White kind of voice. I envisioned him as a lady’s man, more inclined to chill out with some Courvoisier than to energetically track down a notebook computer thief.

In the meantime, I looked around at the pawn shop merchandise. There were cell phones, gold bracelets, amplifiers, and an ostentatious gold and diamond watch with an asking price of $2,499. I felt a combination of indignation, revulsion and greed. Maybe I could find a good deal!!

I reminded myself that these items were most likely the pilfered detritus of crime, or at least broken dreams. I thought of Roman soldiers casting lots for Christ’s robe as he hung on the cross, or the thieves that Ebenezer Scrooge saw in a vision from the ghost of Christmas future, gleefully distributing his material possessions.

I explained to the store manager that the police said they would investigate and, suddenly, she got friendly. “Oh, I had my car window smashed once,” she said, getting chatty and I went along with it, explaining how it’s my second stolen computer in one year and how nothing is covered by insurance because of the deductible. But I’m not fooled by her faux empathy. She’s just a profiteer of pilfered merchandise, trying to avoid police trouble.

As I’m headed out the door, I catch the tail end of a conversation and pause. “That computer is still here,” I hear one of the clerks say.

“Are you talking about my computer?” I ask.

“Oh no,” say all three clerks, shaking their heads in unison. An hour ago, they had “all kinds of Toshiba computers,” but now they apparently have none to show and they have no idea what I’m talking about.

I guess that, for the time being, I’ll just have to hope that Mr. Barry White voice does his job.

--Jeanne Johnson (Ms. Sticky)

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