I had just hooked up my new stereo and was listening to my first record album in about 15 years. Joni was singing “I am on a lonely road and I am traveling, traveling, traveling.” and I was singing along with her as I swept the floor. It was a warm, September Saturday. My front door was open to sunshine and breeze, when a knock came on the screen door. What's this? Nobody comes to my house spontaneously. And I hadn't heard a car in the driveway. Standing in the doorway was a shaggy middle-aged man in shabby shorts.
The scruffy stranger pointed to the old beat up blue pick up truck—parked illegally in the middle of the intersection. “Ma'am, we ran out of gas.” “Oh,” I thought, “the old 'I ran out of gas' trick.” A favorite of pan handlers. “Do you have some gas---like for a lawn mower that we could buy from you?” In his hand was a wad of cash and he was offering to pay for it. Well, maybe he really HAD run out of gas... “Sure”, I replied. It was a little weird, but all of those Sundays of listening to Mindy's sermon's about helping our neighbors, helping “the least of these” had influenced me. I wanted to be a Good Samaritan in my heart. Besides, he had offered to pay for the gas, so it must be all right.
“Do you want me to wait over here?” he asked politely, as I started to walk towards the shed, and he stood by the open door of my house—Joni still trilling through my splurgingly expensive new speakers. “You can come with me,” I told him, as I opened the door to the unlocked shed. I found myself apologetically explaining to him why I had three lawn mowers sitting in the dark, dusty shed. “That one doesn't work, and that one works but doesn't do too well when the grass is high. I really only use this one,” I gestured, as I picked up the red plastic gas can—filled with the most expensive gas I had ever purchased. I had bought it back in the day when gas was $4.99 a gallon. It had lasted for two years, and was still about 1/3 full. He took the gas can across the street to the old blue truck and dumped my precious hard-earned money into it. Well, never mind. I was helping a stranger.
His companion returned the empty gas can to me—an older black man with missing teeth and shoes with floppy soles. “Do you want anything for this?”, he asked. I shook my head. It was so obvious that they needed the money more than I did. He thanked me and left. I stashed the empty container back in the shed, closed the door, and went inside—feeling a little foolish, but virtuous at the same time. As Joni sings: “Some get the gravy. Some get the gristle. Some get the marrow bone. Some get nothing, though there's plenty to space.” I had helped a neighbor in need. I could pat myself on the back for that.
It was early one morning, about three weeks later—as I was standing over the kitchen sink, sleepily filling the coffee pot with water, that I glanced out the window and noticed that the shed door was open. “That's odd,” I thought to myself. I'm very careful about always closing that door because I have cats, and I don't want them getting into mischief in there. I walked outside to investigate, peered into the shed—and that's when I saw it—the shockingly empty space where my only working lawn mower had been. How could someone have just come into my yard and taken my lawn mower? Would the new stereo be next? I felt violated, upset and unsafe. I called the police. “My dog did bark last night,” I told them. “And I heard the sound of something being wheeled over gravel. I assumed it was my neighbor pushing his trash up to the street.” Never mind that it was midnight on a Saturday night. My half asleep brain hadn't thought of that. I felt really foolish.
“My lawn mower was stolen out of my shed last night *&^%$#@!” I posted on facebook. “Will your homeowner's insurance cover it?” asked one friend. I had assumed it would. But when I finally got in touch with an insurance agent I was told, “The value is not in excess of your deductible". $250 lawn mower and $1000 deductible do not compute. Right. Well, at least I could call Sears and get some credit by canceling my extended warranty.
“Do you keep some lights on outside at night?”, asked one of my facebook friends. “Thieves don't like the light.” “Was your shed locked?” was another helpful comment--and “Thank goodness they didn't break into your house!” Yes, my thoughts exactly. “Single women need to be smarter and more self protective than the rest of us, to survive well in this world,” advised another.
That night, I lay in bed—trying to sleep, with the porch light blazing outside my window, and a brand new lock on the door of the old shed. I must have just fallen asleep when I was awakened by the crunch of gravel and Bentley's wild barking. I peered out the window and saw car headlights in the driveway. Oh my God, the thieves had returned! Heart pounding, I picked up my phone and called 9-1-1. “Five oh one West King Street. I'm the one who called you this morning about a missing lawn mower.” I told the operator, my voice shaking, “A car just pulled into my driveway. I think people are getting out and walking around. You need to send someone out here right away-- PLEASE! ” I gave the operator my name and phone number—while anxiously peeking out from behind the blinds. There were flashlights in the yard, footsteps by the shed. A deep voice said “There's a lock on here.” Then, I heard the walkie talkies, and it dawned on me that they were not making any effort to be quiet. I suddenly understood what the operator meant when he told me “There should be someone there right now.”I opened the front door, and there, under the bright porch light was a uniformed officer. “Ma'am,” he said, “I think we may have found your lawn mower.”
They had returned to the scene of the crime to collect finger prints to take to their forensic expert. They were gathering evidence. Didn't I have the serial number? No, but I did finally manage to fish out my lawn mower manual from my bulging file marked “warranties and manuals” At least they had the model number and a picture of it now. They promised to return the next day.
The detective patted the handle of my red Sears lawnmower, which was looking none the worse for the wear. “Is this your lawn mower?” Why yes, it was! “It was an old beat up blue pick up truck”, explained the detective the next day, “that broke down last night.” Through what they called, “good police work”, they had brilliantly put two and two together. I had described the “out of gas” incident to the officers on the morning after the theft, just in case there was any connection. “These people have their scam down. They've done this many times”, he explained to me, They knock on doors and ask for gas, and they notice who has lawn mowers in unlocked sheds. “There were three lawn mowers in the back of the truck, and one of them was this one.” I was so surprised and delighted that it had come home to me. I had never expected this. “You are very lucky,” concurred the officer, as we both signed an official form, saying he had left the mower with its rightful owner. After fumbling a bit with the new lock, I wheeled it back to its rightful resting place, beside the now empty red plastic gas can.
