Vehicle Restoration Part I: The Watcherman

Following one of the greatest times of my life (summer of 2003) I had a string of tumultuous events at the end of my vacation. My truck was stolen. My identity was stolen. The thieves bought an assortment of items using the credit cards that were still in my back pocket, including an $80 trip to Pizza Hut. Who eats that much pizza? Party on me. I pick up the story the night after hitting a motorcyclist on the way back from the Dodgers game. Now, with a stolen vehicle, a stolen identity, a damaged rental car, and a damaged ego, I had to head back to San Jose on Sunday. However, we learned Saturday afternoon my stolen vehicle had finally turned up in the LA area. Here are my thoughts from that day in 2003:

I woke up at 6:45am Sunday and looked up some information before waking Mark and Sean. The three of us arrived at the tow yard Sunday at 8:10am. There were a couple of people in front of us in line so we finally were helped a few minutes before 9:00. They opened the door to the back and I was allowed to see my vehicle. I was to look at it to determine if it was in good enough shape for me to repossess it.

I guess it was somewhat like how it might feel picking your girlfriend up at the airport after a 20-hour return flight from Europe. She clearly doesn't look as good as she usually does, but after five weeks of not seeing her, to you, she looks as beautiful as ever. It made me almost want to just go kiss my truck. But instead I examined it for damage.

Everything was gone. They added an empty beer can to the trash already existing in the cab, but everything of value was gone. The glove box was cleared out. The bed, which previously contained nearly everything I owned, boasted just one gallon of store-bought water. I don't know why the thieves didn't take the water; it was still in a sealed container. I guess stealing my stuff didn't make them thirsty.

The exterior of the car was extremely dirty. The dash was a little damaged from how they removed the stereo, but overall the truck looked like it was in fairly good shape. For the most part they seemed to be fairly conscientious thieves. I opted to drive the truck home, but was unaware of the struggle to follow.

We returned to Ronny, the guy behind the desk that may have been in the most recent "Grumpy Old Men" movie. He was in no hurry helping each customer despite only being open for such a short period of time during the weekends (8am-10am). Ronny explained to us that I could not have my car because it had expired tags. I told him that the tags expired during the time the vehicle was stolen. Also, I need to smog the vehicle for registration. I said this implying that I would indeed need the truck in order to smog it.

Ronny rebutted by saying that I need to have my DMV fees paid before he would release the vehicle. With a hint of malice, or possibly just apathy, Ronny had no trouble not caring at all about us. Fortunately, I had paid the DMV fees before it was ever stolen, and was ready for him to release my truck. Unfortunately, the DMV was closed, so he called the police to get the information. He was able to confirm the registration was not current because it lacked smog verification. However, this was not sufficient for our friend Ronny. He insisted that because it did not specifically say the fees were paid the vehicle would not be released.

I made multiple failed phone attempts to achieve the desired information. The police were able to see that the registration was held up by smog and not fees, but they could not provide documentation to prove it. I was instructed to call the DMV Monday morning. But I didn't have until Monday morning. I had till Ronny left (at 10:00am), and the clock was ticking. We rushed to the nearby Inglewood police department. The woman there gave us a form to release the vehicle, and we scurried back to the yard. We were abrasively greeted by Ronny who quickly informed us the paper in our hand did nothing to help our cause. I tried to formulate an argument, but was shot down. We were sent on our way.

Thinking our quest was lost I still made one last ditch effort by returning to the police station. Now it is was just minutes before 10:00 and we returned to our friend behind the counter. We reiterated our problem, and she told us to wait for the "watcherman." We were at least able to get a few laughs waiting for the "watcherman." While we were anticipating his arrival two black women near us, who were more fluent in "ghetto," correctly translated the term to be "watch commander."

Stay tuned next week to learn about the aid of the watcherman, the locksmith in the green Mustang, and the secret security team.