Last night, at quarter to midnight, I got a call from the Seattle Police. The officer calling explained that a patrol car had found my Honda in the nearby neighborhood of Wallingford. He said that it still had its license plates and appeared to be in driving condition, so I was free to come pick it up.
Fifteen minutes and eight dollars later, the Red Top taxi that had whisked me to my stolen vehicle sped away from the crowded residential neighborhood where my car was parked. The change compartment had been emptied, my six-dollar tripod was missing and the contents of my glove compartment were dramatically strewn about the car, but otherwise my car was pin the same condition I’d left in on New Year’s Eve. In fact, I looked at the ignition and inspected the door locks, but still fond no evidence of how this crime was committed.
OK. As straightforward as all of this may seem, this experience immediately calls my attention to far more metaphysical considerations. I am truly grateful to have my car returned to me in the way it has been. I don’t think I really need to go into the details of the various ways this could have worked. In the end, I wish my car being stolen wouldn’t have weighed on me as much as it has.
Anyway, all’s well that ends well. I now have two cars and a few decisions to make.
