High Praise for the Jersey City Police
Background: Sometime during the first week of February I came home to find my dog hiding in my bedroom, shaking, while the entire contents of my apartment lay in shambles. Personal items, including pictures, were rifled through. The perp left his hat, later identified by my upstairs neighbor as being a person in attendance of a small soiree. He also fed my dog a can of dog food, and popped a movie I had into the vcr and watched it for a bit. The most disgusting component of this whole experience was his ability to throw my guard off, to invade my space, to go through personal items I do not share with anyone, and then to disappear, with a small bounty of my, and alex’s shit.
I called the police when the break-in occurred, and called them again when the hat was found, identifying the intruder. No one seemed quite as alarmed as I was that he broke through three doors with a boulder. I took off to Brooklyn for two weeks, waiting for that sinking feeling to disappear, then went on vacation the weekend following Alex’s return from seeing her boyfriend Mortiis in Norway.
I tried to call the police on multiple occasions, and was told on numerous times that the detective was on vacation or no one was available to help me. I ended up setting up an interview with a detective at the 7th street station which I never attended due to a large snow storm.
I never followed up on my original action because I was disappointed in the lack of police handling of the issue. When the detective came to my house to retrieve the hat, he asked me if the perp might have left it on previous occasion. No, he has never been in my home, I told him. He also insinuated it might belong to one of my other friends. I don’t hang out with thugs, I reassured him. He stated that he would go to the said perp’s work and “interview” him, or at least instill some fear into his ass. None of this was ever induced; no interview, no questioning, no face of the police peeking through his restaurant window.
I know this because Bobby showed up at my window last night, admitting he had broken into my house. He stated he was worried about ‘shorty and her friend’ so decided that pounding through three doors with a boulder was a good way to show his concern. He continued to try and justify his crime but saying he was just worried and ‘coked up’. He denied having looked at my pictures (some nude and yes, personal), then confirmed that he had, indeed, rifled through them all. (they were literally in every room of the house, carpeting the floor) He told me that ‘he knew what I was about’, to which I replied “what, Bobby, you knew I had heart surgery so you wanted a fucking close up look?” He admitted taking cds (the missing ones Alex was freaked out about), which sparked her to come bounding through the hallway to the front of the house, fists bared, threatening to beat the shit out of him (Alex is 6’2, Bobby is barely 5’8). He of course, tried to shake the blame and continued on saying he had left the cds, some figurine things (my little china vases that we had been missing), with the upstairs neighbor. The upstairs kid had threatened to kill him if he didn’t fess up, to which point Bobby bound over to my window at 3:30 am, admitting his crime. Alex wasn’t satisfied with Bobby’s proclamation he had left them with the neighbor, so we suited up, screwdriver in hand, and walked to the house where he had been first confronted. We got the shit, turned around, and I told him he better get the comic book and the rest of the shit back to me. He left them in my windowsill this morning while I was completing orientation for my next big job.
It’s interesting to watch someone in their psychosis, try to justify an invasion. Look, I ain’t no thug, I ain’t no robber. I come back here and admit this shit to you. Bobby is someone I worked with, not someone I dated, not someone I was ‘involved with’. I told him that thinking he was a big hero for admitting he was a complete piece of shit didn’t make me feel any better. I closed it by telling him that I know you think you’re the big man for coming over here, but it’s not good enough. The motherfucker was called out. He tried to tell me he woke up the next morning and protected my shit, so as to ensure nothing fucked up happened to it. I saw you in the train deanna, and I knew I had fucked up (this being last week), I knew you were ok. The only thing I needed protection from was him. I bet he was so worried as he sat his ass down on my futon, watched a movie, and waited for me to come home. Then what would you have done? hmmm? What would your skinny ass have done to ‘protect me’? Poor Bobby. He was so worried about me he fucking broke into my appartment, he stole my shit, and felt bad about it.
I want to extend a big fuck you to all of you psychotic fucks who think that being concerned equals committing an act of destruction. Be it of the mind, body or soul.
