This brings us to the second act in this miserable play: It's now the summer of 1996. In the spring I had purchased my new truck, a 1992 Ford F-150. I still worked for Holiday Sports, spending every waking minute of my life after graduation from the public education system working to earn money so as to finance my upcoming relocation to Illinois in November. I came out of the store after a particularly brutal 16 hour shift and was unpleasantly welcomed by the sight of a thousand glinting stars all around my pickup. This struck me as unusual because when I had arrived in the morning there was no shattered glass in my parking space. Upon closer inspection I found that some brain surgeons from PETA thought I would be more sympathetic to their cause if they smashed all my windows and left stickers on the fenders saying I was a merciless killer who derived pleasure in the suffering of innocent animals.
After I moved out to Illinois my F-150 was vandalized a few more times. In 1997 I left the truck parked at the office overnight because I was too drunk to drive, and I walked home (I lived a mile down the street at that time). For reasons that are beyond me that night somebody thought it would be fun to go over to the wrecking yard near the campus (meaning they had to go almost a quarter mile out of their way) to get a huge stone from the ditch. Then they came back to the campus lot and threw the rock through the passenger side door window. This was done for no reason that I can determine other than to hear the magical sound of glass breaking (it occurs to me in restrospect that this may have been an act of revenge by one of the students I bounced from the school for violating our Acceptable Use Policy). Of course the insult to the injury is that when the airborne stone made its way into the cab it happened to glance off the faceplate of my Alpine head unit, shattering the LCD the same way the window had been busted to hell. This befuddled me, but it wasn't nearly as insulting as what was to come a year or two later. After I moved into my new apartment I discovered that a favorite game of the resident ghetto super-stars was to use the bed of the pickup as a place to dump the bags of their trash, since walking the added thirty feet to the dumpster was clearly too much effort.
And now my spare tire and rim have been stolen quite literally right out from under me. Will wonders never cease? What next, somebody steals a tail lense? Borrows a foglamp cover? Shit, at least a chop-shop has the guts to steal the whole thing in one fell swoop rather than teasing you by lifting random bits and pieces.
Naturally my parents suggested I turn it in to the insurance. Yeah, that's a reasonable idea. It amazes me that the knee-jerk reaction to everything is "let the insurance handle it." Okay, so what would happen if I were to do such a thing? Aside from having my premiums go up I would incur a $150 deductable on a $220 bill for a new wheel and rim. If I'm going to eat $150 of $210 why don't I just swallow the remaining sixty dollars and spare myself the pain of a rate increase that could potentially cost me hundreds if not thousands of dollars over the coming years?
I cannot believe that I have to add "order a new spare rim and tire" to the list of things I'm already staggering under. MORE STRESS PLZ K THX.
You never see us 'cause we don't come around