By the time I left Jenn’s place it was twelve-thirty, quarter to one in the afternoon. I went out to my car and found it odd to see a screwdriver sitting on the driver’s seat. Even more odd was the fact that a jewel case was sitting on the passenger seat, where I was sure it had not been the night before. Even more odd was the way the dash console around the stereo had been ripped off and now hung down around the gearshift, wires and buttons akimbo, the faceplate of the CD player gone.

And then, the bass drum I’d been carting around in the backseat for a week. Also not there.

I walked back into Jenn’s apartment, breathing strangely and trying to form a complete sentence. She ran back out to the car with me, and we stood there awhile in something approaching shock: a lot of oh my gods and I can’t believe this and general restatements of the obvious, like they broke in and they took it. Then, something occurred to me, I yelped, and popped the trunk. Yup: all my drums, all my drums and hardware and cymbals I’d been keeping in the trunk, for convenience’s sake, gone. All told, $1800 worth of my drums, my pride and joy, gone. I started hyperventilating, unable to cry, standing there slack and stupid in the parking lot with Jenn.

I called the police and they said they’d send someone over. I remained reasonably calm. My brother called. He’d been in Grinnell and was coming through town, wanted to drop some stuff off. I told him to swing by Jenn’s. The three of us stood outside. The weather was beautiful. We talked and laughed, my brother and I made stupid jokes. (“It’s too bad you didn’t leave a Dashboard Confessional CD in there,” he said. “Then we’d know who did it.”) My sense of humor was returning, which is good, since it’s my main defense mechanism in times of crisis. And from a very early point on, I was already putting everything in perspective. At least I’m not hurt, I thought. At least the car’s still there, and undamaged. At least my apartment wasn’t broken into. At least my computer, that other four-digit exhibit of my creative and intellectual hubris, hasn’t been stolen.

My brother eventually left; he had to get back to school. The police showed up. The officer was a nondescript, middle-aged guy who took his time looking the car over, looking for prints, etc. He asked if maybe the CD player’s faceplate was still in the car, under the seat, or something. I looked under the driver’s seat. Yup, there it was. Those bastards. They couldn’t get the CD player out, and they left the plate. So at least there was that. I was shocked at myself because I think that, at least in an immediate sense, I was more distressed by the disappearance of my CD player than my drums. No CD player meant I’d have to drive around in silence, which is simply unacceptable. Make no mistake: I’m aggrieved for my drums. They were my pride and joy, the one nice, high-end extravagance I alowed myself. And now they’re in some asshole’s van, on their way to a pawn shop or who knows where.

Maybe it’s because I just read Culture Jam, maybe it’s because I’ve been doing a general inventory of my lifestyle and beliefs and values, but this whole ordeal doesn’t bother me nearly as much as it seems like it should. I mean, it was just stuff. Again, there was no loss of human life, no injury. It was stupid of me to leave my drums in the car in the first place. Whenever misfortune befalls me, I tend to take stock of what I must have done to deserve it. It must be my fault, I think.

The whole thing was a jolt, an amped-up electrode stuck in the routine and humdrum I’ve been experiencing lately. Maybe it was the adrenaline surge, the high drama of crime, the novelty of victimhood, the police involvement. The notion that I prevailed, and I’m still on top of things, and I won’t let it ruin my life. And the comraderie: At least three other people on Jenn’s block had their cars burglarized last night; more were discovered as the day went on. The cops found fingerprints on the CD faceplate and in a couple other places. I don’t know if that’ll do any good.

I had to be at work at three-thirty. No sooner did I get on the interstate than my exhaust pipe dropped and my car began roaring most discourteously. I’m an alchemist when it comes to insult and injury. I just laughed my ass off, the rest of the way to work. Before I’d left, I’d managed to print off some phone numbers of pawn shops and music stores in the Iowa City/Cedar Rapids, and when I went to work. The guy at West Music remembered who I was and said they could “help me out” if I needed a replacement kit.

Anyway. There’s my story. Tomorrow I’m going to get my car fixed, see The Rules Of Attraction, go to the Alto Heceta show, get drunk. And no busted-into car is going to stop me.