On Friday, I was parked for 3 hours in a neighborhood full of wee million-dollar bungalows, surrounded by cars worth a lot more than my 9 year-old Toyota. Why, then, the asshole decided to crash through my back window with a rock is mysterious. The window-smasher didn’t get much: not my stereo, not the emergency five bucks in the glove compartment, not the change or the books.
The take: a 1995 SXSW giveaway canvas bag (my grocery/book bag); a black cardigan sweater that shed its sequins and bled black when it got wet ($5); a cream-colored vintage nightgown coverup with a scary bloodlike stain on the front with fur collar and cuffs ($5).
If there was a logic to the break-in, it must have been that fur. Anyone who’s seen fur collars in thrift stores knows they’re not worth diddly, but I figure the rock-wielder didn’t know any better. I’m bummed, though — I liked wearing those sweaters, and they’re too crummy to be sold and too little to be worn by just about anyone.
And the window cost me just shy of $200 to fix.
I live in a much worse neighborhood; I’ve been mugged here, and last year a homeless guy was burned to death a few blocks away. But never in broad daylight has my car been broken into in Koreatown. Or in the dark, either. It’s immensely frustrating to go to a good neighborhood only to be robbed.
