Someone broke into my truck last night.
They didn't break anything, just forced the back window, which I always leave the teeniest smidgen of a crack open in case I lock my keys inside, as I've been known to do on a frankly embarrassing number of occasions. I always figured that if someone was sharp-eyed enough to notice the hundredth-of-a-millimeter crack, and somehow dishonest enough to break in that way while still being nice enough to not simply take a hammer or something to the windshield, they probably wouldn't bother breaking in for the sort of stuff I keep in my truck. Evidently, I was wrong.
As far as I can ascertain, they took:
a monk's robe I had lent to someone for the play;
my seven-dollar sunglasses from Target;
a bottle of rubber cement I had bought at Staples and intended to return;
and the cassette tape of North Country by the Rankin Family that my roommate bought me.
Which was in the player.
Incidentally, who steals a cassette tape nowadays? Seriously, who does that? You can't even find them in the secondhand shops, they just throw them out because nobody (besides me) listens to them any more. I've been trying to think of possible alternate uses that might prompt somebody to steal one, and all I can come up with is that maybe they intended to pull out the ribbon inside and use it for something, like tying up a butterfly so it couldn't get away. And then they could use the outer case to, say, hammer a thumbtack into something very small and delicate, like a piece of toast. I've used the back of a hairbrush for that sometimes, only it wasn't a piece of toast, it was a sewing machine and my laptop. You know what? Never mind.
The thief very kindly left a forlorn ginger ale bottle, the empty plastic case for North Country, and the library's copy of Love and Responsibility on the truck's seat. Regarding the last, all I can think is that, despite being desperate enough to steal a monk's robe and a bottle of rubber cement, they saw some irony in making off with a work of Catholic theology. Or maybe they couldn't read. Or had some sort of fundamental disagreement with Karol Wojtyla's works and felt they could not in good conscience have anything to do with his book. Who knows. The criminal class of Duncan is a riddle wrapped up in a mystery, so far as I am concerned.
They really must have been desperate, though, both to break into my parked junkheap of a truck (both mirrors are literally held on with tape these days, long story) and to take the things they took. Whatever minor annoyance the loss of my hat and sunglasses caused has been more than outweighed by the amusement speculating about it has afforded me; I just hope that monk's robe keeps them warm tonight.
And please, if you see someone wandering around in a monk's robe, giant floppy hat and sunglasses, possibly holding a bottle of rubber cement, do ask them what they did with the cassette. I'd love to know.