Three Saturdays ago, my phone rang at 1:45 a.m. A police officer was calling to say that the truck turned up in an obscure part of town. It had been missing for two weeks by ths point; why the he couldn’t until a decent hour to call is beyond my understanding. While fighting a sleep-induced fog, I tried to make sense of the details. The truck’s front seats were missing. The steering column was destroyed. And our belongings were nowhere to be found.

By now, the thief’s mother/wife/girlfriend has shown her new bag to all of her friends. Mike’s pool stick is either in the garbage or at at pawn shop. And I, for one, am still a bit peeved. I’m using an old black bag that I found at the bottom of the coat closet. It’s too small, and the straps are failing. I absolutely hate it.