Walking on Broken Glass

Walking on Broken Glass
My family and I stopped to look at art this week. While we wandered among sculptures, someone smashed the window of our truck and stole our stuff: all three passports, two cameras, and lots of clothes. Most devastatingly, though, they got my laptop. The book I’ve been working on, snippets of poetry, and countless sketches of stories, columns, and op-ed pieces — my body of work such as it is — all gone. I remember when my family’s coin-op laundromat got bumped twice within a two-week period. I was sure I’d never recover from that chaos, either. We’d barely cleaned up the first mess and were figuring out how we’d pay for repairs when it happened again. I shouted the F-bomb publicly for the first and only time in my life, and then collapsed in angry tears on the sidewalk. Meanwhile, people filed in with their carts of dirty clothes and complained that so many machines were broken. On another occasion, our beloved husky dropped dead in mid-stride as he raced to greet me after a long day. Gary and I heaved his slack body into the back of our Jeep and raced to the vet, who conjectured that our Sydney had been poisoned. The next day, our home was robbed, and our laundromat money was stolen from our kitchen, where it waited to be put in the bank. Once, a criminal broke into our business and caused over $5,000 in damages. We handed an 8-by-10-inch glossy of his face — printed from a digital image we captured with an expensive security system just before the criminal destroyed it and a lot of other machinery — to a sheriff’s deputy. This particular thief smashed a hole in the wall behind our dryers and used it to rob the jewelry store adjacent to us. The immigrant family who owned that business closed their shop shortly thereafter. It’s hard to w
Subscribe or to access all post and page content.

Leave a Comment

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.