Stripped for parts. No engine, no transmission. Sitting somewhere in San Pablo. Taken by someone who didn't work for it, didn't earn it, just took it upon themselves to steal it.
Don't talk to me about marginalized urban youth. Just don't. Don't talk to me about kids whose parents have wronged them. Cry me a fucking river. I grew up in a dysfunctional, abusive home and I got out pretty much fine. I'm not out stealing cars in the rain, at any rate.
He's pretty chill, considering. The car was insured. We're getting the release from Berkeley PD today and getting our stuff out of the car tomorrow. I don't imagine they took my St. Mary's coffee mug from the trunk. Higher education? What's that?
There's a leap between car theft and physical violence, but I'm not sure exactly how far that leap is. When Adam emailed me today, the subject line was "No engine no transmission." For a moment, I felt the car was a person, and that that person had been violated.
I keep writing, erasing, and re-writing. I want to find someone to blame. But more than anything, I want to feel that I and my loved ones are safe. And you know what? I don't.
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