She’ll go and get her a skirt, stick it under her shirt

The office was a subliminal soft purple. The fluorescent lights flickered and buzzed overhead. Each of the cops was about fifty pounds overweight. Mine was a large white guy with a military buzz cut and thick stubby fingers. The cop punched buttons on a large computer, circa 1985, as he talked on the phone. While he was talking he slid a form across the desk to me.

I filled out the police form, listing the following items: one Fujitsu laptop, three pairs of dress pants, a Kodak digital camera, a GPS unit, four shirts, a fuzzy blue bathrobe, a shaving kit, and four protein cookies.

The cop continued to talk on the phone. “Yeah. Yeah. So they took what? Your computer? Did you lock your car? So how’d they get in? Yeah? Okay, well, you can come on down to the station and fill out a form.” He hung up.

“Wow, I guess this happens a lot here in South Central,” I told him.

“Yeah. Crackheads. They break in at the convention center, steal whatever’s in the car, and sell it.”

“Do you guys ever find the stuff again?” I asked.

“No,” he said. I gave him the form and he stamped it.

All the same. I’d appreciate it if you’d keep an eye out for my shaving kit. It’s black, about four inches by eight, and it has the initials JB on it.

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