07 April 2017

It's Like a Whole Different World [1995]

[A passage from my journal, 6/7 April 1995]
before 4:20 pm—Four days ago. At this point it’s hard to remember events before the break-in; it’s like a whole different world. Seems like I must have got up some time Thursday evening; my father would have been here recovering from the biopsy. He spent the night, I think; maybe we talked or something till fairly late. I have this feeling that I didn’t get any photography done for some reason, but I don’t know what it was. Part of it may have been that I’ve been working on the machine here at night since the monitor (the old monitor) had faded to such an extent that I could not see it well in the daytime. Anyway, my father was up and around on Friday, and we started to get something done, or at any rate made preparations. At one or so we both headed off, he for Canby and I for bed. I was just drifting off when I heard a series of crashing sounds downstairs. It was difficult to tell what they were, so I got up, got dressed, and grabbed my metal club I usually carry when I investigate things; this has been my habit ever since my bicycle was stolen on Christmas Day, 1993. I didn’t see any cars out front, in the driveway, or in the parking lot next door, so I headed downstairs to investigate.
The truth is, I didn’t really expect to find anything out of the ordinary. I thought maybe my brother or sister-in-law had stopped off with one of the kids, either before or after a Kaiser appointment, or else that the sounds were coming from next door. When I walked into the music room I did not expect to suddenly confront two people, a man and a woman, carrying off my stereo equipment.
They didn’t expect me either. To my own considerable sur­prise I advanced into the room with my club in hand and demanded, “What the hell’s going on down here?” Both promptly set down the items they were carrying and the man said that a man had said they could help themselves to anything in the house. As we ex­changed inanities, they quickly threw together a story to the effect that this guy had told them he was moving, and had hired them to carry stuff out of the house. The fact that he had smashed in the back door to get in apparently didn’t worry them. The woman quickly excused herself and said she would wait at the Shamrock. The man, who said his name was Daryl and he was on parole, hung around for awhile, making conversation and offer­ing to help fix the door. As far as I can tell all they got was the AKAI and the CD player, besides some change and some unused Beta tapes. I may well have overlooked something. They overlooked over a hundred dollars in one of the drawers in the kitchen, but I guess they were fixated on stereo equipment. “Daryl” admired my Roland, and said that he played the drums; this did not inspire me with much confidence, so I promptly spirited the Roland away myself, banishing it until security is better.
Well, my father arrived soon after that, and the rest of the day was taken up with explanations, plans, and repairs. My brother built a bar for the back door, and we boarded up its window; my father nailed boards temporarily across the gate. He reported the incident to the police and an officer came out to investigate. From the questions he asked I suspect that he had some idea of who was involved. Eventually everybody left, leaving Glide [my brother’s dog] behind for company. I crashed out, late and with difficulty. Talked with my nephew, my other brother, and a friend at various points in the evening.

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