Many years ago, when I lived in the wealthy suburb of Jamaica Estates, I was awakened in the middle of the night by the sound of my car alarm, blaring and bleating with all its annoying might.
He shot off like a bat out of hell, and in my attempt to chase him, I slipped on the wet asphalt, landing on my forearms, removing a full inch of skin on both arms, from elbow to wrist. As I stood there bleeding and examining the damage both to myself and my car, two police cars screeched up, and cops jumped out, guns drawn. With my hands in the air, I calmly explained to them that I was in fact the owner of the car that had been broken into, pointing to the open door of my apartment, and my obvious state of undress. Assured that somehow I wasn’t breaking into my own car in my skivvies, they re-holstered their firearms, and drove off.
They never bothered to take a report on the damage done to my car, or look for the thief who’d fled into the night.
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