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Saturday night, just a few minutes after midnight, my head popped off my pillow. I was awakened by the sound of my gas grill being dragged across my patio, a distinctive scrape because the tank doesn’t seat well on the grill frame so it falls off anytime it’s moved farther than a few feet.
Without even looking, I knew someone was stealing it.
I got to my knees and separated the blinds a crack, so I could peek. Sure enough there was a man, drenched in the darkness of the Denver summer night, wrestling with my grill making his way to my back gate.
Adrenalin dumped into my bloodstream. My heart quickened, my lungs took chase.
“What’s wrong? Are you okay?” My wife awakened with that seventh sense that wives seem to have, the one that alarms them anytime something out of the ordinary happens. Trouble is that seventh sense—as good as it is—can’t distinguish between a funny noise in the car or an intruder in the back yard.
“Someone’s stealing our grill.”
“What!?” She grabbed my arm, having exited half asleep and entered fully awake. “Should we call someone?”
“I don’t know,” I said. I leapt out of bed and staggered around, unsure where my clothes were. My body cleared the chemistry from my head long enough and well enough to remind me where they were, and I pulled on shorts and a T-shirt. I returned to the window in time to see the guy pull the gate behind him, a surreal, polite gesture considering he’d just violated the sanctity of my property.
My brain riffled through a checklist that bordered on stupidity: sandals on, get keys, grab Maglite (a dual purpose tool if there ever was one). The grill still rattled down the alley, the tank still scraped the asphalt. Out the back door I went.
In the darkness I could see that nothing else was touched… the patio table, the chairs, the umbrella stand all were unmolested. He just wanted the grill. I flashed the beam east and bathed the garage across the alley with a yellowish splash of light. It was safe to approach the gate.
The latch that had graced the wooden jambs hung limp, intact. The padlock that secured it all uncut. No sign of forced entry. He didn’t kick the door in. Explains why I didn’t hear that first, I thought. The screws that attached the hardware to the gate were gone. I looked on the ground. Too dark to see. Check again in the morning.
I got back inside the house and my wife was on the phone.
“… just ten minutes ago. He took our gas grill.” She paused. “Yes, please send someone over. Thank you.” She hung up.
“You didn’t call nine-one-one, did you?”
“No. Three-one-one: ‘For when it’s an urgency but not an emergency.’” Even when upset she’s got a great sense of humor.
We agreed that we didn’t care about the grill and we didn’t want the cops to even look for it or the person who took it. It’s not even the first time we’d been hit. We live in the city—property crime happens.
We were just concerned about our neighbors. And we also wanted better policing in our neighborhood. The entire stretch of our alley—from the top of the block to the bottom—is tagged: a sure sign of gang activity. Things didn’t used to be that way.
And last month, an unsuccessful drive-by shooting went down just two blocks up the street. Luckily no one got hit—especially not anyone innocent. But the drive-by had consequences. The next morning, the shooter’s grandfather was murdered in his home a half block south and across the alley from us.
Things really didn’t used to be that way.
Half an hour later, and to their credit, a Denver police officer showed up. We gave him the tour and told him what happened. He took our report, gave us some tips on securing the gate, and then he was gone.
My sleep after that was fitful… in part because of the adrenalin, in part because I was afraid the perp would come back. The gate, after all, was still unsecured. I got up half a dozen times to check the back yard again. Each time I’d had nothing to worry about.
After the last trip to the back window, I reminded myself that the stuff he took was just that: stuff. I was unharmed. My wife was unharmed. No one came inside and threatened us physically.
The guy just wanted our shitty gas grill. I haven’t used the thing since last summer because it’s got a worn out hose from the propane tank to the grill. The first time he uses it he’ll have to deal with flames billowing from underneath the grill bottom. He’ll have to fix that before he can safely enjoy his hot dogs and hamburgers, flame-broiled to perfection. Honestly, I’d have probably paid him ten bucks to take it off my hands.
So, really, who was the loser here?
I thought about that again the next morning as I was attaching a new latch to the gate. My family was fine and I’m out just a piece-of-shit grill that I’d probably have to replace anyway. That was it.
But not really. It took my time and expense to install a new latch—a measure of security that’s more a formality than anything else to someone who really wants to come in.
Don’t get me wrong: I get that these things are simply a matter of opportunity, and that the more layers that exist between my things and the bad guys, the better off we are. Think like a criminal thinks and do what would deter them the most.
But a determined thief is going to find a way in. Just like the guy did on Saturday night.
So I asked myself again…
Yep. It’s me. I’m the loser here.
Tags: Ramblins
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{ 2 comments… read them below or add one }
Very scary. Hmmm…I’m thinking that the “I’m the loser here” comment is more scary. I know you were very smart in how you handled the situation, so it does matter that you didn’t engage. There have been, and always will be scumbags in the world. It makes me sick that the rest of us have to deal with them.
And I just got rid of a BBQ like yours — a free ad and someone came and got it in less than 2 hours.
Thanks for stopping by, Kelly. It’s funny you mention engagement because, about two seconds after I first made sense of what was happening, I actually considered for a moment going outside. I decided it wasn’t my best move:
1. I was still at that sleep stage where I felt drunk.
2. I couldn’t tell whether he had a weapon of some kind.
3. I have motion-sensitive lights at the side door and at the back corner of the house… I’d have lost an advantage the second I opened the door to go after him.
I figured there’s nothing wrong with self-preservation.
Had I been awake when I discovered him, things might have been different.