Prologue: Monday, December 16, 2002
Four things you need to know before we begin:
I own a car.
I live in a high-rise.
My car is parked in the garage of the high-rise.
I don't drive to work, so I often go days without using, or even seeing, my car.
This is why I didn't notice that somebody stole my car on Monday. Or perhaps Sunday. Or maybe it was Saturday.
Tuesday, December 17, 2002, 1:30 am
There are only three kinds of phone calls you can get in the middle of the night:
Wrong numbers.
Prank calls.
Bad news.
The phone call I got at 1:30 on Tuesday morning belonged in the third category. I forget what I was dreaming about when the phone woke me up.
"Hello, is this David Till?"
"Mblkpf." (Some people are coherent when they're woken up. Other people voluntarily do aerobics at 6 in the morning. These people are deranged.)
"Mumble mumble mumble do you drive a Honda Civic, license plate AKDB 823?"
"Mblkpf."
"We've found your car, with its ignition ripped out. All Canadian Towing will be towing it to our pound."
By now, my brain was starting to function. "Who is this?"
"This is the Orillia OPP calling, Mr. Till. We have your car."
I went down to the garage to see if my car was there, just in case I'd just hallucinated this phone call. It wasn't, and I hadn't. Clearly, this was going to be an Interesting Experience - even more interesting than the time someone offered to sell me cookware on the Chicago El, or the time someone called me in 1984 and claimed that my (brand new) phone number had been used to make obscene phone calls to his wife. I'm not sure I like Interesting Experiences.
Things I learned today: when you find out your car has been stolen, sleep is impossible.
Tuesday, December 17, 7:30 am
The constable in charge of the case calls me the next morning. "Hi. This is Constable John Doe of the Orillia OPP." (Needless to say, that's not his real name. His real name is John Smith.) "How are you today, David?"
"I'm fine, but apparently my car isn't so good."
He fills me in on the details. Apparently, some upstanding citizen broke into my car, took apart its ignition, stole it, drove to Barrie to pick up his girlfriend, drove back to Toronto and went on a self-guided tour of the city, then drove back to Orillia. The police stopped him and his girlfriend shortly after 1 in the morning. When the cops pulled him over, he took off, leaving his sweetie behind (so much for that relationship). They caught him shortly after 5 am, and he was now apparently in custody at their office. I'm not sure whether that means he's behind bars, or whether he's sitting watching TV in their waiting room.
The constable, who seemed like a nice enough guy, advised me to contact my insurance company, as my car was too damaged to drive unless I knew how to start a car with a screwdriver. (I grew up in the suburbs, and know no felons personally, so I don't know how to do this.) He said that the car was being fingerprinted, and would likely be released in a day or so. He added that he might want to take a statement from me. I'm not sure what I could tell him that would help.
Call #1 was to my parents. They asked if there was anything they could do to help. Bless them.
Call #2 was to my trusty insurance company, whose answering machine told me to call my insurance broker. Great, I thought. My broker is in Kitchener/Waterloo, as that's where I lived when I got my insurance.
Call #3 was to the insurance broker. I told the representative my story. She responded, "Oh, my," which would become the standard response when I told anybody over 40 what had happened. (Everybody under 40 usually responded, "Holy <S-word>!") I gave her my home phone number.
Tuesday, December 17, day
I had a deadline to meet at work, so I was pretty busy all day. Except for one half-hour stretch in which I winked out in the company library, I managed to survive the whole day without sleep. I even got my work done. Yay for me.
I called my answering machine at home at least once every hour so that I wouldn't miss any calls. There was only one hour I forgot to call. Guess when the insurance adjuster called.
Things I learned: I can do without sleep when I have to. But it's not fun.
Wednesday, December 18
I called the Orillia OPP, gave them my name, and asked about my car. They put me on hold for several minutes. It's not fun being on hold when you're making a long distance call. You can almost see the money slowly leaking out of your bank account, like sand slipping through an hourglass.
When the desk sergeant got back on the line, she told me two things:
My car was still being held for fingerprinting.
It couldn't be repaired until I came up to Orillia to sign a release form.
I pointed out, as politely as possible, that it was going to be hard for me to get to Orillia without a car, and asked whether I could do this over the phone. The desk sergeant said that it wouldn't be possible because how would they know it was really me? I refrained from pointing out that the odds of someone else showing up claiming to be me in order to have my car repaired without my knowledge were pretty small. It's normally not a good idea to argue with an officer of the law, as they have the right to arrest me and force me to submit to body cavity searches.
Wednesday, December 18, later
Reached the insurance adjuster, who told me that this was the first stolen car he'd ever processed. I said that this was the first car I'd ever had stolen. I guess we are on an even footing.
Friday, December 20
Called the Orillia OPP again. The person on duty had no idea what was happening with my car, and suggested that I call the towing company. The towing company suggested I call the repair shop that would eventually be repairing my car once all the paperwork had been sorted out. The repair shop told me that the OPP hadn't finished fingerprinting the car yet. All of these are long distance calls, of course. I don't want to think what my phone bill will be next month.
The repair shop was sympathetic when I told them that I wasn't tremendously keen on travelling to Orillia just to sign a piece of paper. Apparently, I might be able to get this done by having a form faxed to me, which I would sign and then fax back to them. Of course, I don't have a fax machine to send forms to, but let's worry about one thing at a time.
Called the insurance adjuster again, and found out that my insurance company will spring for a rental car as long as the bill stays below $900. Apparently, I can go one level up from economy in my rental, such as a Sunfire, Focus or even a Grand Am. (I can't imagine driving a Grand Am with a straight face.) He also mentioned that their appraiser in Orillia hadn't been able to completely assess the damage to the car, as they need to get it up on a lift first to look at the underside. A cursory inspection of the underside was not possible, because the ground at the towing parking lot is covered in dog feces. Ruining one's suit by getting mud and dog crap all over it is not part of an insurance adjuster's job description.
The insurance adjuster did mention that there was some body damage to the car. Conscience compelled me to point out that some of the body damage might be mine, as I knew of two scrapes and one dent that I was personally responsible for. (I am a safe driver, but spatial awareness is not my long suit.) He responded, "Oh, yeah. I guess I was supposed to ask you about that."
After talking with the insurance adjuster, I got on the phone and asked various car rental companies whether there was any chance I could get a car for the 24th and 25th on short notice. While they were polite enough not to laugh in my face, I gathered that my chances of renting an economy car from a major company over Christmas on short notice are roughly equivalent to my chances of dating Heather Graham.
Since I needed to get to Kitchener on the 24th to visit friends, I had two options remaining:
Take the bus.
Whine to Mom and Dad.
The bus to Kitchener normally goes on a non-guided tour of one or more of Guelph, Cambridge, and a gas station near what used to be Hespeler. It can be up to a three-hour trip, and you're always crammed tightly into a seat next to someone with bad breath and/or indifferent personal hygiene habits. So, clearly, #2 was the way to go.
I phoned Mom and Dad, mentioned that I couldn't get a car, and wistfully noted that I might have to take the bus. As I hoped, they offered to lend me their car, provided that somebody's insurance could cover it. I am pleased, but I feel vaguely manipulative.
Monday, December 23, 2002
My father called, and told me that his insurance covers his car if it is lent to a licensed driver with permission. According to a relative who is an expert in such things, Honda Civics are popular among thieves - apparently, they are easy to break into, and they are quite durable. I don't think that Honda will be using this information in their advertising campaigns.
I phoned the repair shop again, and we agreed that I could call the towing company and release the car over the phone. I called the towing company again. This was another long distance call. Everybody is now a little bemused by the whole process. Putting on my best formal phone voice - I can sound like a radio announcer when I want to - I officially release the car. Woo hoo.
The police are now finished fingerprinting the car, so the next step is for the insurance adjuster to formally evaluate the damage. Of course, this isn't going to happen over Christmas.
Tuesday, December 24, 2002
I drive to Kitchener and back in my parents' car. Very carefully.
Monday, January 6, 2003
The insurance company has finished assessing the damage. My car will need $2900 worth of repairs. Some of this is to the dents and scratches I caused, so I will be paying $300 deductible. My insurance broker assures me that my premiums will not go up, though I'm not so sure. Sometimes, I forget that my role in this process is that of the victim of a crime.
Wednesday, January 8, 2003
The repair shop tells me it will take about two weeks to repair the car.
I am kind of used to going without my car by now. I have not contributed to global warming in many days. I feel virtuous.Wednesday, January 15, 2003
The repair shop phones and tells me that my car is almost ready - they just need to wait for one more part to come in. I refrain from pointing out that I don't want to make plans to go all the way to Orillia to get my car until it is completely ready, and ask them to let me know when the car is done. Hmph.
Friday, January 17, 2003
Good news: the car is ready. Bad news: the forecast for Orillia calls for 15 to 20 centimetres of snowsqualls on Friday night, and 15 to 20 more on Saturday. I wonder whether they will close the roads to Orillia - or, worse, close the roads south of Orillia once I get there. (I was once stranded in Collingwood when on a high-school skiing trip, but that's a whole story in itself.) I called the repair shop; the guy who answered basically implied, politely, that I was an effete urban wimp for even considering the question. I later find out that this man snowmobiled to work the next day.
Saturday, January 18, 2003
My father kindly drives me to Orillia to retrieve my long-lost wayward automobile. Driving conditions become poor north of Newmarket, but Highway 400 and Highway 11 are driveable. I retrieve the car, which has my personal possessions stored in a bag, along with a rather lurid skin magazine that I know I didn't buy. I hasten to give the magazine to the guy at the desk, because I don't want my father to think that I buy this kind of stuff. (I don't buy porn - that's what the Internet is for.) I have no idea whether a mechanic or the thief bought the magazine.
My car makes it home safe. I discover that the Moxy Fruvous cassette that I left in the glove compartment has remained untouched, and that there seem to be no unpleasant stains inside the car.
That day, I go and buy The Club, and install it on my car when I finally park it in the high-rise garage. A co-worker claims that The Club is pretty much useless, but my goal is to increase the chance that a thief will maybe pick some other guy's car. I figure I've done my time.
Thanks for reading, and happy motoring.
Postscript I, February 2003
The Orillia OPP phoned me again to tell me that they had taken some items out of the car for fingerprinting, and asked whether I wanted any of them. I didn't recognize any of them, so they must have been left by the thief. They included a bent Philips screwdriver, a cell phone, some empty root beer cans, an empty bottle of Bacardi... and a tire iron.
Postscript II, February 2003
When I went over a month without my car, I discovered I didn't need it, so I sold it.