The Prodigal Sedan Returns

Well, I know you all have been waiting anxiously for news of my illegally appropriated (from me) vehicle, so allow me to soothe all your worries. It's back. As it turns out, it had been left about a block away from my house on a side street, and had been sitting there for the past week. Fortunately, I received a phone call from the police before they decided to tow it, and I was able to get there and pick up the car myself. There was nothng valuable in the car except the $40 worth of gas in the tank that I had just filled the day before it was stolen, and that was still full, so lucky me. The thief even put up my parking brake, which I thought was a very courteous gesture. Getting it back, however was not completely without incident. Apparently, I received a parking citation for obstructing the path of a street sweeper the day after I had reported my car stolen. Which is to say that my car had been sitting for five more days afterwards, and yet the police only discovered it when a local resident reported that a mysterious vehicle had been sitting outside their house for a period of time that made them feel uncomfortable. What I want to know is why there seems to be zero communication between the City of Berkeley's parking enforcement and the Berkeley PD. How hard would it be to have a shared database of vehicular information? My assumption is that it wouldn't be that hard, but correct me if I'm wrong. I mean, what do I know about running a city? In any case, it's good to be driving again, I suppose.

So I was, like, this close to being a model for Calvin Klein.

The other day I was working at the San Francisco Public Library as I often do (if you consider 15 hours a week often), when I was approached by an Indian gentleman in a suit and tie. I was shelving books and listening to my iPod and basically doing my darndest to enforce the Dewey Decimal System on some unruly little books. I can usually tell that someone wants to speak with me when they walk in a vector directly toward my body and I look up and see that their mouths are moving. Of course, I can never hear what they are saying because I am listening to my iPod, but that never seems to deter them from speaking until I have removed my earbuds. The first thing I always say to these people is "Hmmm?" as I raise my eyebrows in a fashion that expresses a general lack of understanding due to inattentiveness. The Indian gentleman continued to speak as he handed me a plain white card too tall to be a proper business card with "Calvin Klein" printed in the center and a stickered-on clear label with precisely this type written:

Models Wanted
415 7420263/650 5180069
STAGECRAFTMODELS@JUNO.COM
WWW.JOHNROBERTPOWERS.NET

"Calvin Klein is looking for Asian American models right now because they realize that Asian Americans are spending a lot of money," he said in an accent that made it clear that he was Indian (or perhaps Pakistani to be fair).

"Uh huh." I was skeptical of his pitch, but couldn't quite figure out the angle.

"So you should send them your headshots."

"Okay?" I was really just sort of bewildered here.

"Just mention my name, -- (at this point he said what sounded like "Kim" to me, but I really couldn't be sure.)

And then off he went without another word or a glance. His behavior didn't seem to suggest he was a pervert (and believe me, the San Francisco Public Library is filled with them) which was my first assumption, but there was definitely something suspicious about the whole encounter. I turned the card around, which revealed that it was in fact a perfume/cologne sample (there were actually three scents on the back of the card: euphoria, euphoria blossom and euphoria men; I sniffed all three to verify that each was distinct). Well, I wasn't really sure what this meant. Was he trying to pass this thing off as a legitimate Calvin Klein model ad in order to give some credibility to his suggestion that I send my headshots to the posted e-mail? Not that I had any headshots, but if I did, what exactly would he want with them? Perhaps he actually was some sort of scout, and he was just passing through the library and saw me there and just knew that my face could grace the glossy advertisements of Calvin Klein, while picking up a finder's fee for himself. I have to admit that I let my ego be stroked by this idea momentarily. I mean, I know I'm only 5'9", but hey, I could still be a model, right? And he did say Asian, so, you know, maybe that's actually pretty tall or something, right? Right, well regardless, I wanted to see what this whole thing was all about.

Later on, when I was at home, I looked up the website http://www.johnrobertpowers.net/ (which you can now look at for yourself). It's basically some modelling agency for undiscovered "talents" but nowhere, does it mention the distinguished Calvin Klein collection, of which I had so hoped to model for. This guy was definitely a phony, but to what end? Next, I did a Google search for the posted e-mail address and well, I'll just show you what turned up. As you can see, this is all becoming very clear. Bear in mind that the young gentleman in the picture was not the one who approached me at the library, a man who appeared middle age. Nevertheless, I think the man behind it all is one and the same. It's my theory that this "Kim" fellow goes around San Francisco dressed in a nice suit handing off his homemade ads (perhaps on varying perfume samples) to unsuspecting young men, whose hopes of glamor and fortune he wishes to exploit, all so he can get them to send some photographs of themselves (preferably headshots) to his e-mail address. What he does from there, I can only imagine... though I'm pretty sure it involves beating off.

By the way, I also called the second phone number, expecting it to be some sort of automated message, but it turned out to be the man himself! (or at least another Indian/Paskistani gentleman.) I was surprised, and had to resort to my on-the-spot lying abilities, which could definitely use some refinement. Here is the conversation as follows:
Him: "Hello?"
Me: "Uh...hello?"
Him: "Yes?"
Me: "Oh, um, is, uh... Jim there?" This is my sorry attempt to ask for someone who I don't expect to be there so I can play it off as a misdialed number. Of course, I had to pick a name that sounded just like what might have been his name. Brilliant.
Him: "Yes. What is this about?" He sounded excited.
Me: "Wait? This is Jim?" I made sure to emphasize the "J".
Him: "Yes. What is your name?"
Me:"Uhhh, this is, um, Ryan, but umm is this number five-five-eight-zero-zero-eight-nine?" I knew I couldn't fail to get out of this one saying the wrong phone number, but he wasn't listening.
Him: "Yes, yes. What is this about?" Dear God, I was in it now.
Me: "Umm, this doesn't sound like Jim, I must have the wrong number."
Him: "Well, what are you calling about?" This guy would not quit. I could tell he was just waiting for the word "modelling" to come into the conversation. I'm sure he has a whole routine worked out for convincing callers to send their photos to him.
Me: "Yeah, sorry, I think I have the wrong number."
Him: "Oh, okay..."

And that folks, was the end of that conversation. So it doesn't look like I'll be modelling for Calvin Klein's Asian American Ad Campaign. But feel free to send this guy some glamor shots, or give him a call--just don't tell him I sent you.

Steal me once, shame on you. Steal me twice... seriously now?

So I've been the proud owner of a 1989 Toyota Camry since I was a junior in high school (that's a little over six years), and now, for the second time this month, it's been stolen. I realize this requires some explanation. All in due time, my friends, all in due time. Let's just focus on the car for a minute. Now, I'll be the first to admit that I have some issues with this car of mine; a sputtering engine that burns five times as much gas going uphill, a perpetually lit dashboard alert for a tail-light that refuses to illuminate in spite of new bulbs, a recently replaced windshield that's already beginning to crack (luckily on the passenger's side), and oh yes, its humidifying disposition toward soaking up vast amounts of rainwater only to release said moisture onto the inside of every window (not to mention the mildew that's beginning to creep in from the trunk). Yeah, I have some issues, but overall, the car has served me well. If there is one problem that I have with it, it is its propensity for being burgled.

Now you're probably wondering why anyone would want to steal a beater such as the one I have just described. That's what I was wondering the first time this happened. Well, the car was parked in a "questionable" part of Oakland, though ironically across from a BMW dealership, if you can believe that. In any case, I was actually somewhat amused to find my car missing. I hadn't left anything of real value in it, so I felt kind of lucky to still be in possession of my iPod and RayBan aviators, which I often leave in the glove box. But yeah, I called the police and reported the theft, and an officer showed up with the reassuring words "Yeah, this is a popular one." Having handled that, I called my insurance company, who let me know that I wouldn't be receiving any money because I only had liability, which didn't surprise me, but formalities are formalities. All in all, it wasn't so bad. I went out and bought another bike (I say "another" because my previous bike was stolen a few months earlier) so I could be able to get to work.

Well, as it so happens, my car was recovered at approximately 4:00a.m. on a Sunday morning (a day and a half after it had been stolen). I received a phone call from the Berkeley Police Department at around 6:00 a.m., alerting me that my car had been found abandoned somewhere in Berkeley apparently having been used in a robbery or something (they were pretty sparse with the details, and I was pretty sparse with my attention span), and that I would have to first go to the Oakland PD (with which I had filed the report) to get a release form before I could go to the Berkeley PD to get yet another release form before I could go to the impound where they were holding my car. I managed to respond with some coherent-as-possible affirmatives, promptly ending the conversation and going back to sleep. An hour later the Oakland PD called me to ask if the Berkeley PD had called me.

So I got up around 8:30 a.m. because I have tennis lessons at 9:00 (which I won't really get into right now, perhaps in another blog entry). I figured I should probably cancel this day's session so I could go and retrieve my car, and so I did. My aunt (not the aunt whose house I am currently living in, which again I won't really get into at this moment) was nice enough to come pick me up and drive me to Oakland to obtain my first piece of bureaucratic pulp. I found it curious that the one clerk (not very many staff on a Sunday morning) at the police station was behind bullet-proof glass. Do people often come into a police station to shoot it up? Apparently all police stations take this precaution, because it was the same in Berkeley, except I had to communicate through an intercom before a clerk actually came in and sat behind the impervious window.

Well folks, it was looking good, I now had all the paperwork I needed to go and get the car back that I didn't really care to have returned to me. This, however, would, prove to be more tedious than I had expected. It being Sunday and all, no one was currently at the impound (which was actually a private towing company not affiliated with the BPD), and I had to dial their call center, so that they could have someone come to meet me. This took about forty-five minutes, meanwhile I had to emphatically reassure my father over the phone that I was "taking care of it." Finally, someone (a man, who in all likelihood could have been a NASCAR driver or more likely someone who watches it) arrived and I was let into their office to process the repossession of my vehicle. As it so happens, the police, despite having authorized the release of my car on paper, had put a hold on it because they still needed to fingerprint the car and retrieve some evidence. This, of course, would take some more time. I wasn't too irritated though, because I figured if the police were still conducting an investigation with my car, then there was no way that I could get stuck with the towing fee (a thought that hadn't escaped my mind throughout this whole ordeal). So my aunt and I went to eat lunch and returned an hour and a half later. I was told that the police had arrived about thirty minutes after I had left and retrieved an empty wine bottle and a very large knife from my car. I found this very reassuring to say the least. So the would-be NASCAR driver/fan re-processed my paperwork and very nonchalantly printed out a receipt for me, stating the total aloud:

"Alright, so that'll be $385." (a brief run-down of the fees: towing charges: 160.00, forklift: 80.00, gatefee: 80.00, 1 Days storage at the rate of $65.00 per day: 65.00)

"Um, am I supposed to be paying for this?" I said indignantly.

"Well, if you have insurance--

"I don't, not for this anyway."

He gave me a sort of tough-shit look.

"How can I be held responsible for this? I didn't have any say whether my car was towed or not."

"Take it up with police."


Yeah, I called the police. They told me that they usually try to contact the owners of stolen cars so that they can come pick them up before they're towed, but given the early hour that it was found, it was too difficult to do me that courtesy, let alone tell me that I would be footing the bill when they did decide to call me. Still, I protested. I mean they hadn't even gathered all the evidence from my car until an hour earlier, and they were doing it on my money. They told me to take it up with their Traffic Bureau the next morning. This was fast turning into Kafka's The Trial, only I knew what my crime was, it being that I got my car stolen.

"So can I at least see my car before I pay, I mean, what if it isn't running? I'll have to get it towed again," I pleaded with the in-all-likelihood-a-NASCAR-fan.

"Nope, sorry."

I knew I couldn't leave it there because the storage fees would just rack up, and I didn't want to risk getting stuck with those, so I figured I'd pay first and then try to get my money back from the city. The man was even nice enough to waive the $65 storage fee given my point about the police examining my car on my money, so one gold star for him on that one. I handed him the keys and finally was able to see my car as he drove it out onto the street from the behind the barbed wire fence-enclosed yard. Well, it was running, though a bit worse for the wear. The first noticeable damage was a sizeable dent in the front bumper with the distinct diameter of a parking meter. Inside was where the real work had been done. First off, I don't know what meth or crack cocaine smells like, but I'm pretty sure one of the two (if not both) had been smoked inside my car, because believe you me folks, it smelled something awful. Not surprising were the missing stereo or CD wallet, even the Jenga set that had been sitting in my backseat for weeks. What surprised me was what was left behind; the floor was literally littered with hairpieces (or "weaves"), like at least seven of them, which prompted me to believe that my car was stolen by drag queens, but further investigation revealed a glove compartment filled with unused tampons and several Newport cigarette butts; these were definitely some low-down and dirty femmes. The car felt tainted as I drove it home, and I was embarrassed of what pedestrians thought as they passed my car at stoplights. Well, what would your car look like if it was stolen by some crack-smoking, liquor-store robbing chicks on their periods? I wanted to say to them.

It took me a few days, but I finally got down to cleaning out my car. Beneath the passenger seat, along with some "BluntWraps" and a JackLink's Beefstick (which might have been mine though I couldn't say for sure) I found an appointment card for a dentist that wasn't mine, though without a name for the patient. Eureka! I nearly exclaimed, though it was probably closer to Gotcha now bitches! It occurred to me that it would be unlikely that any of the seedy characters such as the ones that had stolen my car would have a dentist, but I was slightly heartened by the display of "cosmetic dentistry" on the card, which led me to believe that maybe one of them wanted to get themselves a "grill." In any case I called the police, and they told me that they were too busy to send a car out and that I would have to bring it in, so I finished cleaning out my car, stuffing weaves, et al. into a plastic bag that I designated as "EVIDENCE" and once again took my car out onto the road. So yeah, I delivered the “evidence” and was a dutiful citizen an all, but what I was really thinking about was how I would get paid back if they ever caught these fine young ladies. Of course, the one potentially damning piece of evidence that I found could have belonged to the poor sap that they robbed, so who knows.

Well, here I am a little over two weeks later, and things have relatively gone back to normal. I sent my claim for reimbursement to George Hills Company, which apparently handles such things for the City of Berkeley, and I have since been notified that my claim is “under review.” But wait, what’s that? Did I not park my car in my own driveway last night? Oh, no I did, I guess it’s just been stolen again. And a few blocks from the historical Claremont Hotel no less! In other words, I live, or rather my aunt lives, in a fairly nice part of Berkeley. But I’ve learned that it’s not the neighborhood so much as it is the irresistibility of stealing a banged up Toyota Camry that saw the inauguration of George H. Walker Bush.

Coming soon: The Mystery of the Missing Automobile and Ryan’s Subsequent Bureaucratic Nightmare Part II!