“Hello,” I said.
“Hey. How’re you?”
“Not so good.”
There was a slight pause before he asked, “What’s wrong?
“Someone,” I stopped, not wanting to inflict him with any more troubles than he already had, then continued, “someone smashed out the back window of your truck while I was at work.” I awaited his long drawn out sigh before asking, “Do you think it could have been him?”
“I don’t know. This really sucks. Go to Joe’s and I’ll call him to help you cover it up.”
My exhaustion forced me to dread the idea. I wanted nothing more than to curl up in bed and go to sleep. I told him, “There’s glass everywhere. I can’t drive it like this” and asked, “Should I call the police?”
“Just clean it up and get it covered. You can call the police after.”
I groaned and said I’d call him back and phoned my boss to tell him what happened. He told me to call the police, so I did, and after leaving a report I worked on removing the bits of glass from the drivers seat. I tried taping garbage bags across the window but it was too cold for it to stick and I eventually gave up the idea. I called my dad back and told him, “I’m going to drive it home like this. The tape won’t stick and I’m tired and have to go to bed.”
He said, “Okay” and that he’d meet me at my house to fix it, but before I left two police cars came into the parking lot wanting a written report.
The police officer asked me to get in the back seat of her car, which I did willingly, and I uncomfortably sat there, feeling like a prisoner, waiting for her to come back. When she did, she flooded me with a series of questions after I gave my personal report of what happened. First was, “Why do you think that it was him who did this?”