Stolen

I turned the key in the heavy old door but it wouldn't open. I tried again. And one more just for sure. The deadbolt was on but I didn't have a key to that.

The cat began to cry on the other side. I had just brought her home that week from Florida. She was still getting used to the place. Why was the deadbolt on?

I called the property manager. "Hi. Did anyone come over today to do something in the apartment?" It seemed lately they were over all the time. Perhaps the maintenance guy had a key to the deadbolt and thought I did too.

While I was on hold a rush of cold wet air came from under the door, circling my ankles. Shit! I ran down the half flight of stairs and through the basement hallway to the back door - the service entrance in another life when the brownstone was an elegant home and not ten apartments. I had the dining room and the back service rooms. My floormate, a handsome gay Asian doctor had the library in the front of the building.

I didn't meet the downstairs neighbors, a young Eastern European couple, until this day. They heard me panicking on the phone and came out of their apartment just as I was running down the stairs.

I opened the back door and ran up the five steps to the ground level. I stood amongst the garbage cans and looked up at my broken window. The rusty grate had been pulled back and the old window pushed out of its tracks.

I called the police and stayed in the alley way afraid the cat would get out the window. I was even more afraid that a person, not a cat, would come out the window and I'd be the only road block between him and his next fix, but I stayed there anyway.

It was raining and windy and by the time the police came I was soaked. I had come home early in order to have time to shop for an outfit for Kenny's mass. The family had been on edge for weeks. Waiting. Searching. Working with the police. My mother would call with the smallest bit of news. I was at an ATM in St. Petersburg when she called and said "They've found bone. Burned remains."

She had lured him to her farm. Gave him a place to stay and played house. Then pumped him full of tranquilizers and tourtured him for weeks. Then she incinerated him.

Allegedly.

The thief took my laptop, camera, jewelry, even the liquor out of my freezer, even the quarters for my laundry. How could I care? At the luncheon the next day after the service, my cousins, aunts, and uncles, exclaimed over the break-in with genuine concern. "Are you OK?" "Do you feel safe being all alone in the city?" And I replied with my "How can I even care about stuff like cameras and rings at a time like this?" I didn't like this talk. The whole conversation. I felt like I sounded smug; like I was looking for credit in taking a high-road of non-materialism. I didn't like the words. Every conversation was a cliche. Twinges of guilt with every laugh.

What do you do in situations like this? You support the parents. You make coffee. You look at baby pictures pulled out of wallets. You ignore the fact that the mother is heavily medicated because you would be too if that were your son. You exchange email addresses. You note how everyone has aged and think they're probably thinking the same about you. You think, how could this have happened? Because there are bad people out there, that's why.

The Russian girl tells me my place has been broken into before. She wants me to come in and have some soup. She's good people.

The family members who can, drive all the way up there to sit in the courtroom and give their support. They are angry and silent and profoundly sad. There are no outbursts. My family has formed a circle around the parents; all emotional energy - every drop - is focused inside this circle, supporting them. She will see nothing but a cohesive unit, - a properly dressed, properly stone-faced family that won't offer her the satisfaction of an outburst. They hold small photos and keep silent. There's no way she will get off.

I yell at the building owner's daughter for not securing the window in the first place and for not letting me know of prior break-ins. The window is fixed in an hour. That window always made me nervous. I should have listened to my gut. Always listen to your gut.

OHMIGOD! NO WAY!!

NO, for godsake, NO, I don't want to guess which celebrity that obviously is. It's Lindsay Loahn. Because she's in rehab this week and therefore her stock is up. Well, that and Tara Reid hasn't shown a nipple lately. Way to go Tara. You must have invested in double sided tape or some self esteem or something. Back when Britney was sleep-deprived and taking national TV interviews in dirty hair and chipped purple nail polish and driving around with her kid in the front like a dashboard baby Jesus, the answer was Britney Spears. And Paris Hilton looks like a chicken, so unless the answer is "the love child of Frank Perdue and Marie Antoinette" I don't want to guess who that is either.

Eminem, quit staring out at us like some strung out male hooker at the back of the bar in Industrial Waste, Michigan. I swear, all he needs is a pool stick and a hickey on his chest. Put on a shirt, man.

And Brad, however appealing duck hunting you sounds since you left your wife because she wouldn't have a baby on your timetable, I think I'll pass.

My lord, these banner ads remind me of when the Training Department discovered PowerPoint ten years ago. Everything was swooshing and swiping and pinging and TA-DA!!!-ing.

Can we please get rid of the animations all together. Please? I find myself scrolling just so I can't see them. They are that visually annoying to me. And if that friggin yellow emoticon says "OHMIGOD! NOWAY! one more time when I mistakenly scroll over it, I'm going to lose it.

No, I don't want a free pair of UGGs.

No, I don't want to press the "fart button." Zero desire.

Who are these people who keep these guys in business? Someone must be clicking on them, right? What are they thinking when they do?

MMMMmmmmm....spam and cookies! Yum! Clickety click click click.

Assholes.