WHOSE JOINT IS THIS ANYWAY? (Part Two)

“We’ve been robbed!” The first thing we noticed missing was our television set. The next thing was our wedding recording. They had stolen our entire vinyl record collection, and among the records was a recording of our wedding. “Well,” said W.S. trying to cheer me up, “I certainly hope that one of those crooks understands Hebrew or they’re going to miss the best parts.”

They obviously didn’t want our old furniture. Hell, I didn’t want our old furniture, but one of the criminals had taken a fancy to the clothes in W.S.’s closet, which was completely empty except for one jacket and one pair of trousers that didn’t match. My clothes hadn’t been touched, but the drawers had been ransacked. The police reckoned that they were probably kids and only took things they could use themselves. That made me feel a whole lot better, because I didn’t think my taste in clothes was all that bad.

Two tired looking policemen had arrived several hours after we called and reported the robbery.  I asked them, “Who do you suppose did this?” Looking around our little dingy apartment, one of them replied, “Haven’t got a clue, Lady.” “Aren’t you going to take fingerprints?” I asked, as they were about to leave. “Don’t think so,” was the answer. “Nobody died here.”

“What do we do now?” said W.S. “Take inventory,” was the best advice the policeman could give. He also told us that for insurance purposes we had to report the crime at the police station, and that the closest station to our home was the Halsted Street precinct. So the next day, we drove there to report the dastardly deed. Neither one of us had ever been in a police station, let alone a station like this one. The building was foreboding, and the activity inside made the French Revolution look like a Sunday school picnic.

People were shouting and pushing and cursing and running and bleeding, and we couldn’t tell which ones were the cops and which were the criminals. I suggested, “Let’s look for a uniform---preferably not the skinhead over there dressed like a Nazi.” We finally found a detective who took pity on us, gave us the proper paperwork, and sent us on our way.

The next day we read in the newspaper that a ring of dishonest cops had been exposed. They had besmirched the good name of the entire hardworking police force when caught burglarizing apartments along the Outer Drive. Our buddies at the Halsted precinct were not involved, but from that day on, whenever W.S. wore his mismatched outfit, he proudly claimed that he was wearing his “police rejects.”

I began browsing apartment ads. As soon as this lease was up, I had decided, we were going to move---one more time.

Esther Blumenfeld

CROSSING WITH THE BLUE LIGHT, Blumenfeld c. 2006