While in Milwaukee, I had two bikes stolen, was mugged twice, had my car broken into two times, and had a car stolen. None of them were fun. Walking to where you left something important and seeing an empty space takes the air out of you lungs before they are filled with ten gallons of hot, profanity-laced venom. Immediate thoughts run to “Okay, maybe I just put it somewhere else,” before you reach the inevitable murderous rampage of anger and hatred.
After I left Milwaukee, I had a nice 2.5 year stretch of not being robbed in any way (besides the Post Renaissance debacle). Crime had gone back to the periphery of my thoughts, only hearing about it on the news. It’s similar to volcanic eruptions in the way that you know it happens, but since it will never directly affect you, you might as well be talking about aliens carjacking asteroids. It doesn’t seem real. Just an abstract idea that you know sucks but doesn’t really move you in either direction. Fiction.
This is the dreamland I have been living in until today. I walked to where I stored my bike in the parking garage of my apartment complex to ride to the library, get a haircut, and then go to the grocery store. Standard off-day activities. As I turned the corner to the spot my bike had been sitting in for the last three months, the pit of anger was ripped open as I noticed my bike was gone.