An open letter to some joy-riding thieves

I woke up one morning to an empty driveway. It took a couple seconds for the gravity to set in. I started frantically running around my house, searching for a car I knew was nowhere near by. After sobbing and sitting in the rain for hours in my empty driveway, I sat down and wrote this angry letter to the ones who (temporarily) ripped part of my life from me and caused this pain.

Dear Person Who Stole The Beast From My Driveway Whilst I Slept Last Night, This car may not look like a lot to you – its paint is flaking off in great chunks; parts of it have been taped, glued, wired together; it makes a lot of strange noises. But what you stole, this old car, is a piece of me. We’ve been together for ten years. I remember the day my dad brought it home for me. I was 16 and selfish, and I remember thinking this car was boxy and ugly, and man, I can’t wait to be a grown-up and buy myself a new car. But I didn’t – I took care of this one. I drove this one across the state weekend after weekend, I fell in love and trusted this car to stay with me as long as I could keep it alive. It was stolen once before, out of the Indian River Mall parking lot, while I was inside watching a Harry Potter movie. I remember mixing my salty tears with the ocean the following day, when my friend interrupted my sorrow-drowning by signaling from the shore. “They found your car at Target!” she screamed. And it was true. I remember Krista and I hauling ass to Target to find The Beast -- its steering column shattered, the joy riders’ Wendy’s wrappers littered about, and The Format CD set at maximum volume. I remember how wonderful it felt to be reunited with my car, to feel like we were one entity. And now it’s happened again. But this time, the crime didn’t take place in magical Indian River County, where things just work out because fairies or whoever didn’t let bad shit happen to me – this is in Gainesville, and who knows if The Beast will ever turn up and in what condition. I remember racing this car down deserted Vero roads, back when I first got it and I could peel out at any speed. I remember parking this car by the river and taking advantage of its unusually large backseat with my boyfriends. I remember driving this car long distances for concerts through torrential downpours and cold snaps, no heat to speak of. The Beast is a 1990 after all. But it always got me there. Sometimes the parts would get old and my car would shut off. It left me stranded last Thanksgiving on the side of the highway for hours on end. But everything was always fixed, and it was always returned to me, ready for a new round of abuse.

Will you take care of my car for me? I just got the oil changed so don’t mind the oil gauge – it likes to keep time with the rhythms of the speakers. I hope you enjoy my J. Cole CD in the CD player – I was just crying the other day to his lyric “No such thing as a life that’s better than yours.” Maybe if you had heard this record before we wouldn’t be here now though. I hope you enjoy my signed Avey Tare album; it’s one of my prized possessions from one of my all-time favorite artists. I hope you enjoy the many mix CDs I’ve made over 10 years that help define who I am and catapult me back in time whenever I listen to them. I hope my cat eye sunglasses fit your face just perfectly; they seem to transform anyone who wears them into a glamorous lady. I hope you try on my gold sunglasses and note how perfectly crisp and blue the late afternoon sky looks through their shade. They used to bring me a certain simple joy. I hope you enjoy all my Arts in Medicine supplies: the apron I painted a bright yellow sun on, my notebooks I write the details of patients' lives in. I hope you fucking eat up the smell of my nasty restaurant shoes; I needed new ones anyway. I hope you read all my notes scattered about on the dashboard; in fact I hope you can answer a couple questions I’ve been scribbling about lately. Here’s one: where’s the line between a healthy sense of self and a case of narcissism? Here’s another: why is it that, as we age, every face you pass seems to look familiar and therefore appears more attractive? Riddle me that, motherfucker. Most of all, I hope that you leave The Beast somewhere we can find it, because our time together isn’t up yet, and I’m not ready to part with it until I’ve said a proper goodbye. Awesome crime, great job! Sincerely, Tyler Francischine

Don't worry, guys. My car was found, run out of gas and battery juice in the middle of the road on UF campus. Total losses: gold sunglasses (shattered), Avey Tare's Slasher Flicks CD (stolen), steering wheel cover (stolen), and just about every mix CD from the last few years (destroyed).