Theft City, by Sharline Dominguez
Shrill sounds insidiously climbed into my resting thoughts, but I could not move on my bed. Mesmerized by the cacophony flowing in through the bottom of my open window, I allowed for the sinister night to cradle me in its arms. The alarm sounds coming from a vehicle somewhere down Rockaway Parkway were as loud as they could have been that night. But I was too far gone in my sleep to realize that the next morning would be a living hell. I did not wake up to the cries of our car, and the men had run for their lives, and ran with our possessions, and tucked the last ounce of faith that I had of this neighborhood into their pockets. But I had let them—just like that.
The next morning, I awake and night clouds no longer hang over my window. Mami is making pancakes and the aroma of the coffee brewing on the kitchen stove swarms my nostrils. As if entranced in a wicked spell by the ringing of my alarm clock, my body moves up from the comfort of my bed without the permission of my consciousness. Inevitably, I crash into the closet next to my bed, condemning it for the pain that is beginning to eat at my toe’s fragile nerves. Out in the living room, I make my way to the wooden bathroom door, six steps away, and I open it, hoping to find a mirror. Impenetrably dark and disheveled strands of long hair feast upon a face that I do not recognize. Although it tells me to leave it alone, I can’t help but trace the figure with my fingers. With massive bags under her eyes, complemented by vision-obscuring eye boogers, the being appears as if she has had recurrent insomniac episodes.
Like any other weekday, I proceed to take a shower in an attempt to cleanse my tired being. After getting ready for school, I open the apartment door and walk down the two sets of freshly polished stairs. My eyes immediately catch sight of the Lincoln Navigator in the morning sun and I cannot believe the presence before them. Broken windows, scratched doors, and popped tires. Signs of unlawful activity decorate the car’s exterior, and the condition is so awful, that I cannot gather the will to open the unlocked doors to peer into the interior.
“Mami, mami! Come look at this!” I yell at the top of my lungs, hoping that my frail voice will travel into the open outside door and echo off the walls in our second floor apartment.
Just a minute later, she is downstairs, standing on the concrete sidewalk, oozing with panic, her mouth contorted into the shape of a disk. My mother is not even done drying her hair, she is half- dressed, and her face is unmade by the red lipstick it so beautifully wears every day. Before I know it, she transforms the sidewalk into her very own stage in the midst of her anger, raising her hands to plant them on the sides of her head, showcasing the intensity of her heart’s sorrow for all of Brooklyn’s residents to see.
“Ay dios mio, ay diosito mio, oh my god, pero que paso aqui?” she frantically asks the warm morning air.
In replacement of the air’s response, I struggle to find the right words to soothe my mother’s nerves, knowing that it is impossible to do so at the moment. Unable to answer her question, I look around to seek solace in the honks of the cars driving by on Rockaway Parkway, purposely letting the noise distract me from the scene that now confronts my mother and me. Incapable of coming to the notion as to how someone robbed us of our rightful possessions, I edge away from my mom’s cries and begin to wonder, How will I get to school? Right then and there, it is clear to me that our routine is finally broken by an unfortunate event that should have been anticipated by us before, as we foolishly played the music too loud. We should have anticipated it as we happily rolled down the windows for our neighbors to see us hysterically laughing, unaware of the ephemeral summer days.
It’s as if someone has used a knife to carve the insides of a watermelon clean, but this is not a fruit. It’s a car that has been illegally invaded in these treacherous streets of Canarsie, streets that were once home to Irish and Italian Americans. As if to remind us that we are not welcome, and will never be, on an avenue where everyone knows who’s slinging what and where not to go at the height of the endless nights, the marauders skillfully pried our radio out of its place. They left us with nothing but our shoes to recollect on the matted floor—a concave emptiness—meaningless.
Upon my inspection of the car’s carcass, I lay eyes upon a gleaming pocketknife underneath the passenger seats. Goosebumps form along my arms once I realize that only five or six hours ago, men completely unrelated to me were sitting right where I am sitting, probably armed. My mom’s Vogue magazines—always available for my sister and me to leaf through whenever we wanted to criticize our favorite fashionistas for being a little too perfect—are no longer neatly stacked inside a side compartment. Instead, shattered bits of glass touch my trembling fingers as I search, courageously looking for another weapon. Sand from when we went to the beach last week remains on the carpeted floor, unharmed by the practical men of action. Our damp towels are unmade and stained as if the men had purified their hands with them after taking what they wanted.
Perhaps they became envious when they speculated us driving away in our car to a new place, convinced we had more than enough money to spend. Perhaps they lived by the law that said they had to get rich or die trying. Perhaps they unleashed all of the pain encased in their struggles against the luxury of our car, thinking that they were beating the system. Perhaps I am wrong and these men never really meant us any emotional distress. Maybe all they really wanted was a better audio system.
That night, after everyone is fast asleep, I arise from my bed as the overhead fan gently hums and refreshes me, while I pray that my footsteps do not awake my younger sister Cindy from her deep slumber. Propped against the safety of my window, I squint to see if it is possible to catch the thugs who live across the street engaging in criminal behavior. My eyes follow them to the corner store where they make yet another illegal transaction. Untouched by fear, my curiosity urges me to approach them and ask questions, but not as a friendly gesture.
Instead, it is a means for me to find closure in a case I thought would never present itself to civilized people like my mother and me. Better yet, I want to challenge the stereotypes that pertain to these types of men, proving to society that there are modest motives behind their actions. In ridding my soul of the depictions I see of them—big, buff men with lavish clothes, expensive cell phones and diamond-encrusted watches—I want to persuade my mother, and maybe even myself, that they are not all the same. However, the damage is done and questions are left unanswered. The cops do not come, and they never come, because it seems as if car robberies regularly happen in a predominantly West-Indian neighborhood.
Only two months later, my mom and her boyfriend found a new apartment. Overnight, we feverishly gathered our belongings, only taking necessities, leaving behind picture frames, kitchen utensils, and even bedroom sets that my mom superstitiously deemed as curses in our new home. She wanted to have nothing to do with anything, for after settling in Gravesend, family-oriented and peaceful, I was forbidden to even utter Canarsie in her presence, again.
