Hello, situation normies! I hope December is treating you well so far. But if December isn’t treating you well, I suggest writing to your member of Congress. If they can’t help, try screaming into the void. And if that doesn’t help, your best bet is to drown your troubles in holiday cookies.
Meantime, I’m excited for you to read today’s story. It’s a funny story, if laughing at another person’s misery is the kind of content you consider funny. It’s also a true crime story, but don’t worry, I’m not going to drag it out into a nine-part podcast. What I am going to do, however, is ask for your advice at the end. Seriously. I’m the victim here, and I really want to know what you’d do if you were in my shoes.
As always, thanks for reading!
— Michael
One trope of detective fiction is that the criminal always returns to the scene of the crime. But real life isn’t a detective novel, or is it?
Earlier this summer, I would’ve answered no to that question. After scoundrels stole my catalytic convertor, I would’ve told you that it couldn’t happen again. Not that I would’ve been able to base that claim on anything concrete, mind you. But I would’ve insisted with the certitude possessed only by male billionaires that I had paid my dues to the mean streets of Los Angeles, that the tropes of detective novels don’t amount to a hill of beans when it comes to real life crimes, that there was no way in hell the larcenous rogues who stole my catalytic convertor would return to the scene of the crime.
Well, guess what.
I would’ve been wrong.
Dead-wrong.
Less than five months after stealing my original catalytic convertor, the motherfuckers came back and stole my replacement catalytic convertor.
Now, I know what you’re thinking: Michael, how can you be sure that the motherfuckers who stole your first catalytic convertor are the same motherfuckers who stole your second catalytic convertor?
Great question!
The truth is this: I have no idea if they’re the same motherfuckers. The only thing I know for sure is that my catalytic convertor has been mother-fucked twice in the same year!
The first time my catalytic convertor was stolen, I called our insurance company first thing. Then I posted about the theft on social media, where my Los Angeles friends commiserated with me. It sort of felt like a rite of passage.
This time around, I felt frustrated and hopeless. I needed moral support, or solidarity, or someone who would just listen to my profane rant about how this catalytic convertor situation is FUBAR. Usually, my sister Allison is good fit for these situations, but she lives in New York. Car trouble just ain’t her bag.
“That’s terrible,” Allison said. “But… um… what does a catalytic convertor do?”
“Look, I’m not a car scientist. Hell, I’m not even sure if car scientist is a real job. But you need a catalytic convertor. Otherwise, you won’t pass your smog test, your car will make a terrible farting sound, and you’ll destroy the planet. I mean, you’ll contribute to destroying the planet. You get the idea, right?”
“I guess so. I don’t know. I haven’t owned a car in almost twenty years.”
“Well, just imagine if someone stole your subway card,” I said. “That would suck ass, right?”
“That would suck ass, I guess. Honestly, though, I’m more likely to lose my subway card. I always just buy a new one. But I usually end up finding the old one, so it always kind of works out.”
“Well, ladifuckingda. It’s a transportation paradise in New York City, isn’t it? But here in Los Angeles—city of your birth, Allison—a stolen catalytic convertor means you are shit outta luck.”
“You’re right. And I’m sorry for your loss. But maybe this is the universe trying to tell you something?”
“That I should learn Krav Maga, exercise my Second Amendment right to buy heavy artillery, and become a vigilante so that I can hunt these bastards down?”
“No, you’re a lover not a fighter, remember?”
“Oh yeah, thanks for the reminder.”
“I think the universe is trying to tell you to move to New York, where you don’t need a car.”
An image of me rooting for the Mets flashed before my eyes. I nearly threw up in mouth. Then I hung up the phone.
My next call was to our insurance company. Actually, it wasn’t a traditional telephone call because they say that it’s faster to file a claim through the app.
Faster? Yes.
Effective? Not so much.
After two days of waiting, I checked the app and saw that my claim had been closed. This time, I decided to make an old-fashioned phone call.
I listened to a series of messages about how everything works better on the app, then I pressed a bunch of buttons until a human named Erik came on the line.
“It says the claim is closed because you want to take care of it yourself,” Erik said.
“Absolutely not, Erik. I bought an insurance policy because I prefer stuff like this to be handled by third-parties.”
“Right on,” Erik said. “Give me a moment, and I’ll get this squared away.”
Erik did some typing, then he hit me with a question.
“Who is this claim pertaining to?”
“Um… me?”
“It says here the claim was filed by Christina.”
“She’s my wife. She kept her name. We’ve been confusing people for eleven years running!”
“Right on, right on. My wife kept her name too. We’ve been confusing people for six years.”
“Congrats on that, Erik!”
“Thanks!”
While Erik cleaned up the marital surname confusion, I thought about telling him that my mechanic also married a woman who kept her name and suggesting that the three of us should get beers and start a book club for enlightened men when this is all over. But instead, I told Erik that this was the second time this year that thieves had stolen my catalytic convertor.
“No way,” he said.
“Way.”
“Dang. Those catalytic convertor thefts are a real problem. Did you see the feds made a major bust a few weeks back? We were all excited about that.”
I pictured a sea of claims adjusters high-fiving each other upon hearing the news that the Justice Department had taken down a nationwide ring of catalytic convertor thieves. I hope they ordered pizza to celebrate the triumph of justice. After all, the feds busted 21 individuals in five states, including California. And according to the DOJ press release, the United States is seeking forfeiture of over $545 million in connection with this case. Maybe, if I hold my breath, I’ll get my $500 deductible back.
“I heard about that one,” I told Erik. “But based on my lived experience, it seems like other criminal conspiracies remain at large.”
Erik agreed. Law enforcement still had a lot of work to do. He also said I had a “snow ball’s chance in hell” of getting my $500 deductible back from the feds.
“OK, I’ve reopened the claim,” he said. “You should be hearing from our adjuster in about an hour or two.”
Immediately, my phone buzzed with a new text message. I checked the screen. It was the insurance adjuster.
“Erik, I won’t say a hero, ‘cause, what’s a hero? But sometimes, there’s a man. And I’m talkin’ about you here, dude. Sometimes, there’s a man, well, he’s the man for his time and place because he understands, without being told, that sometimes married women keep their names, and sometimes insurance claims get fucked up for no reason, and most important of all, he understands how to unfuck those claims, toot sweet.”
Erik thanked me, then reminded me to give him the highest rating on the customer satisfaction survey that was surely headed my way. Before he hung up, we made plans to form a bowling team with my mechanic.
Now what happens?
Now, we wait. And by we, I mean me.
The claims people will do their thing. Then the mechanic people will do their thing. Then the supply chain will do its thing.
With any luck, I should have my new catalytic convertor in time for Passover. But as the lyrics to the old blues song go, “if it wasn’t for bad luck, I wouldn’t have no luck at all.”
Which brings me to the interactive part of this story. After watching my car sit idle for most of the summer and knowing that it’ll sit idle again for the bulk of the winter, I can’t help but worry that I was born under a very bad automotive sign. My fear, and I think it’s a rational one at this point, is that as soon as I get a new catalytic convertor, the thieves will return to steal it.
Help me, situation normies, you’re my only hope!
I’ve been thinking about my next move a lot. I think I’ve got four options. I’m going to run you through those options, then ask you to pick your choice in a poll. After that, I’d love it if you expanded on your answer in the comments.
Option #1: It’s a police matter, let them handle it
This option is a joke, so I’ve selected an appropriate video clip👇
Option #2: Accept that this is life in the big city
Whenever things went sideways, my father used to say, “that’s life in the big city.” I don’t know where he picked up the phrase, which is a cleaner, urban alternative to saying “shit happens.” But every time I think about my stolen catalytic convertors, I hear my father’s voice.
So, that’s an option: do nothing. Except, doing nothing is more complicated than it sounds. Living by the “life in the big city” mantra, means practicing a kind of acceptance of the world as it is, rather than spinning your wheels because the world isn’t as you think it should be. If I take this option, I’ll have to accept that thieves have the power to render my car inoperable at their whim, as well as the fact that I can’t really complain about it.
Option #3: Channel my inner sleuth & foil the caper
Disclosure: I’ve never solved any crimes, unless you count the case of the stolen Garbage Pail Kids. In that case, Allison confessed after I found the stolen property in her hands. But since there were only two people home at the time of the theft, my investigative efforts were more Clouseau than Poirot. Still, when it comes to my stolen catalytic convertors, I’m willing to give it the old college try.
Here’s how Joe College plans to work the case.
First, I’ll get a new catalytic convertor. I’ll ask my enlightened mechanic to put my car’s VIN on the new catalytic convertor, which will help the district attorney make the case after I bring these suckers to justice. I’ll also ask my mechanic to install a cage. This won’t stop or even deter the thieves, but it will slow them down; the next time they fuck with my car, it’ll take them four minutes, instead of two!
Second, I’ll set up a surveillance operation that’ll make Dick Cheney proud. I’m thinking several cameras on our property and some cameras across the street. They’ll activate with motion sensor, naturally. And if I can find the budget, they’ll have infrared capabilities. My goal is to get faces and licenses plates of the thieves, obviously. But I don’t want it to be that low-quality video on Nextdoor. I want the footage to be the high-quality video the local news sources from Nextdoor. Understand the difference?
Third, I’ll place Apple AirTags on the new catalytic convertor. That way I can track the thieves to their fence.
Fourth, once I gather all the evidence I need to takedown the thieves who keep stealing my catalytic convertors, as well as the larger criminal syndicate, I’ll take that evidence to the cops.
Fifth, if the cops won’t do anything about it, I’ll write another Situation Normal post where we can debate my next moves, which are likely to include:
Vigilantism. Duh.
Enlisting the power of the press to shame the authorities into doing their job.
Run for Mayor, win in a landslide, and spend my term tackling the Sisyphean task of police reform, while being criticized in the press and mocked on social media.
Option #4: Take the money and run!
Here’s how this one would play out. First, I’d get the car fixed. Then I’d sell the car. After that, we’d be a one-car family.
This option would be a win for the environment (our other car is electric). It would also be a win for readers who like my Lyft driver stories. Then there’s the financial win. We own the car outright, so there are no car payments to say goodbye to. But I’m sure I can figure out a way to use whatever cash I get from selling a 2015 Prius with low mileage and a new catalytic convertor.
But part of me worries that this option is also a loser. For one thing, it feels like I’m letting the thieves win. That’s not a good feeling, even though they’ve been winning this whole time. Also, as much as I like the idea of becoming a one-car family, the truth is that we live in the San Fernando Valley, the birthplace of car culture. Living the one-car family life is possible, but in this part of the country, it’s a commitment that requires planning, determination, and a willingness to be that guy at parties and social gatherings.
Time for the poll!
As I said, I really want your input, situation normies! But unlike Twitter polls, this one isn’t binding, OK? I’m not going to crack the case just because that’s how the vote went down. The U.S. may be a democracy (for now), but Situation Normal is a benevolent dictatorship. In other words, I value your input, but don’t expect your voice or your vote to call the shots around here.
Let’s talk about it!
Usually, I close each Situation Normal post with some discussion questions. But I’d like to keep this one as open-ended as possible. Please share your advice, thoughts, questions, sympathies, or whatever else you’ve got on your mind in the comments section 👇