Whoever stole our meter money almost certainly was not wearing a ski mask

The car pulls up. I wave, smile. My littlest leans forward in her carseat, points at me, mouths “Daddy!” I unlock the trunk, heave in my suitcase and backpack, slam the trunk shut, pop the rear passenger door open, lean in, “Daddy!” they both say, “my girls!” I kiss both their foreheads, “I missed you!” I shut the door, open my door, climb in, kiss my wife on the cheek, “thanks for picking me up!”

“Of course! Great to have you home.”

She drives back to our house, catches me up on the what they did - an outing to the park, swimming at the public pool, the children’s museum with Evelyn.

“Oh, you know, I may be being paranoid but when I got in the car the glovebox was open and the passenger door wasn’t all the way latched.”

“Huh. Anything missing?”

“No. Not that I know of anyway. The GPS is still here.”

I open the cover of the armrest between the driver and passenger seat.

“The bag of quarters for the downtown meters is gone.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

“That was like, what, three bucks?”

“I think so.”

“I know it was still in there, we used it on Friday.”

“Yeah I used it Tuesday night when I dropped those books back to the library.”

“That’s… I mean, it’s not much stuff, it’s mostly just annoying.”

“I guess we should keep the car locked more often.”

“I guess so.”

“When did you notice this? When did you drive last?”

“This morning, and yesterday. So it had to be last night.”

We get home. My kids and I run around the house shouting. We eat dinner. I wash a few dishes, read a few bedtime stories.

The next day I take out the garbage, and notice the lights on at my next door neighbor’s house. I walk over, tap the door. They come to the door slowly, open the screen door, the smell of weed pours out.

“Uh, yeah?” It’s the woman I sometimes see petting her cat on the porch swing.

“Hey sorry to bother you, but - “

The big guy with the tattoos walks up behind her, “what’s up?”

“Hey, so, I think our car got broke into last night -“

“Ohhhh shiiiiit,” she says it comes out slow, stoned talk.

“They broke into your car? Oh no! Man that’s so terrible! I’m so sorry!” He shakes his head in a wide arc, he’s definitely stoned too.

“I mean, it’s not a huge deal, all they got is a bag of quarters for when we take our kids to the library downtown, but I wanted to give you a heads up in case you got anything valuable in your -“

“Man that happened, uh, some other guy, up the street somewhere -“ he says.

“They took his, an expensive camera, on the driver’s side seat,” she adds, “he said the lock on that side was busted.”

“Yeah he came by earlier today.”

“He was really upset, he had just shot pictures of a wedding and hadn’t downloaded them onto his computer yet.”

“Damn,” I picture our wedding photo albums, stacked on the shelf in our living room above the kids books. “Thanks for telling me about that.”

“Yeah for sure man. Sorry about your car.”

“It’s not a big deal. Honestly it’s mostly just like creepy to think of someone being up in my space, and in a way it’s a little funny to think of someone going to the trouble and only finding like three bucks in quarters. I just wanted to stop by to make sure you had a heads up about keeping anything expensive in your car.”

“Well thanks for stopping in.”

“For sure. You all have a great night.” It crosses my mind to wish they’d offer me a hit off what they’re smoking. I don’t have any interest in getting high, other than my usual interest in taking the edge off a little. It just feels, like, neighborly. I walk up the street, tell one neighbor about what’s happened. He thanks me, asks where I live. “I’m the house with the clothesline -“

“Oh yeah, we see kids’ stuff in your yard sometimes.”

“Yup. I got two.”

“How old?”

“Six and two.”

“Oh great, we got one that’s two, uh, too.”

“Cool.”

“Well, a year and a half, but whatever.”

“Nice. I like that age. The transition from baby to toddler, it’s fun.”

“Yeah.”

“Well listen I’m gonna split, nice to meet you.” How is it I have met so few of my neighbors still? I’m good at avoiding people, apparently. I guess it’s nice to have a skill.

I knock on another door. The woman inside stares at me through the window, stays sitting on her couch. I knock again, count to three in my head, walk away without making eye contact with her. I knock on the door of the next house up. A woman comes to the door, same expression as the woman on the couch at the last house. I introduce myself, explain what’s happened, her frown goes away.

“What’d they get from you?”

“Just a bag of quarters, for the parking meters.”

“They didn’t hit us this time but they’ve been through two or three times in the past year, they always just take our meter money.”

“I’ve never bothered to lock the door before, I guess I’ll start.”

“No, that’s more expensive.”

“More expensive?”

“Last winter somebody busted out my friend’s window. She left her purse in the backseat. What we do is just leave nothing in the car that looks worth their time, if they want to take our meter money, that’s not the end of the world. It’s cheaper than paying for a new window.”

“I never thought of it that way.”

“Yeah. Are you on the neighborhood association email list?”

“No. I didn’t know there was a neighborhood association.”

“People on there have tried to track how often this happens a few times over the years.”

We’re moving soon enough, I don’t ask her how to get on this email list. “I see, well, I just wanted to make sure people around here knew this had happened over the weekend.”

“I appreciate it.”

A guy walks up. Bicced head, shorts, no shirt, even more body hair than me. He frowns like the woman did when she first came to the door. “Somebody went through his car,” the woman explains.

“I just wanted to tell folks on the street that it happened.”

“They’ve done that to us a few times,” he says, “they leave our GPS, just take our quarters.”

“That’s what they did to us too. I thought it was weird they left the GPS, though ours is kinda broke anyway.”

“They’re hard to sell.”

“Makes sense. Well, you all have a nice night.”

“You too,” the woman says.

“Which house you live in?” the man asks.

“The one with the clothesline.”

“Okay. Thanks for stopping by.”

“Yup.” I shake both their hands, walk home swatting at mosquitos biting my arms, neck, face, scalp. I walk up our driveway, fish in my pocket, get out my car key and unlock the passenger door. I lean in, unlock all the other doors, climb out, shut the door, pick up our kitchen trashcan from where I’d left it at the end of the driveway, carry it back in the house.

“Somebody got into one of the neighbor’s cars too, took a camera,” I say.

“Yeah I saw a sign up about that, taped to a post,” my wife says. I feel slightly disappointed not to have news anymore.

“Somebody told me that they think it’s better to leave your car unlocked, so no one breaks your window getting into the car.”

“I never thought of that.”

I smile, feeling smug, Sir Car Unlocked, Preventer of Windowsmashing, Knight and Protector of the Family.

“Me neither, so I unlocked the car.”

“Okay.”

I put the garbage can back under the sink, wash my hands. “You want a cup of tea?”

“That’d be great. Are you gonna start bedtime stories soon for the girls?”

“Oh yeah. Yeah, I am.”

“Great. I’ll go tell them.”

She walks out of the kitchen as I fill the tea kettle, imagine someone climbing in our car, climbing in a window into our house. I get out two mugs, drop a tea bag into each. I look at the knife rack, picture throwing the kettle of water on a guy in a ski mask, then remind myself that whoever stole our meter money was almost certainly not wearing a ski mask. Walking down the street in June in a ski mask is way more conspicuous than walking up and getting into a car. No one does that, probably. I wonder if all this fear makes me a racist or otherwise objectionable. I certainly feel objectionable. I remember what my friend Erin told me, that a fear of robberies correlates with having been badly mistreated as a kid, it’s a way to deal with the feeling of never feeling safe at home. I also remember there were several Canadian quarters mixed in with our meter money and I smirk to myself. Good luck spending that Mr. Car Climber Inner Man. The kettle clicks, I pour boiling water into the mugs.

“Girls!” I shout as I walk out of the kitchen, “Bed time! Let’s read stories!”