An open letter to the lackluster moron who stole my daughter's bike:
I know: We've only ourselves to blame. The bike was chained to a pole on a boulevard, which is kinda-sorta public property. Sure, we have to mow it, but the city takes care of the trees. It's a gray area. The pole was public property, to be sure. It had a sign. In our defense I'll note that the sign did not say "Anything Attached to Me Is Yours if You Have a Bolt Cutter — Hey, What a Coincidence, You Do" but it's possible you thought this was one of those "It's near a curb, I can take it" situations.
After all, Curb Stuff is common property, right? I put out a sofa the other day. A big one, like a fainting couch for NBA athletes. It was gone in three hours. I'm surprised no one takes the garbage cans when we put them out. Hey, look at that! Free garbage cans! Score!
It's amazing that no one digs up the grass and rolls it up. Free sod! Because it's on the boulevard!
Yes, true, but technically it is the boulevard.
It's more likely you took the bike because that's what you do. You drive around at 3 a.m. looking for other people's property so you can steal it. There are two reasons why.
1. You are an impoverished man who was wrongfully imprisoned for stealing a loaf of bread, and your adopted child has a quiet, boundless kindness that gnaws at your soul — so mean the ration of joy the world has dealt her, so strong her spirit. You found her when she was selling matches — well, actually, batteries for vaping — barefoot, in December, and the two of you formed a bond. She waits in your tiny room, hoping you return with something to eat. But you have only a bicycle.
Oh, that is fine, Papa! she says. That's what she calls you, and it gives you a joy you never knew. A bike has lots of fine parts. We can boil the tires and pretend it's licorice! If we break down the frame and put it in a pot, we'll have Titanium Soup in no time! Oh, you're the best Papa ever. But what shall we do with the chain?
