Thieve and Be Thieved – A Story About Retaliation

(This is going to be sweet and short~)

<<Friday, 18 November 2011>> 18:30 ~

An average day it was, with average weather and overall average pleasantness. I had just had the usual debate practice in the university library, in what I believe had been a soundproof room, mind you, and we were all going home. Well, not all. I am known for being hungry, and that day was not an exception. Having accompanied a friend of mine walking to the station, me on my bike, I looked around for options around the shopping district of Kunitachi. My heart settled on Yayoi-ken, a popular restaurant where lonely people like myself enjoy our infinite helping of white rice. Little did I know, as I ignorantly munched my deep-fried seafood that evening, something very, very evil was unfolding outside.

The closest bicycle parking lot outside had always been in front of McDonald’s and Seiyu, a huge department store whose cheap prices draw the consumer out of you. I alone would not dare contest the belief of our mayor, however absurd it seemed to me, that the spacious pavement there was not meant for parking bikes. But when you have the rest of the town backing you, breaking the law is a picnic, or so the whole town seemed to think. So none of us cared about the rules – there always were plenty of bicycles in front of the department store. Occasionally a bike or two would outstay their welcome, and angry Japanese police would confiscate them. But nothing serious should happen if you left your bike unattended only for a short, high-carb, fattening dinner.

You can imagine my surprise when my silver bike was nowhere to be found. Said bike was a popular -cheap- brand sold in the very department store I was standing in front of. To distinguish mine from the unworthy others, I had applied neatly on the rear fender, a homemade “STEVE” sticker. But none of the many bikes there bore that sticker. Or traces of what used to be the sticker, if some lunatic had been having fun peeling stickers off others’ bikes.

I walked back and forth at least three times to make sure if I hadn’t made a mistake. I remembered vividly where exactly I parked the thing that day, which was quite unusual considering how often I just forgot and wandered to search. I remembered because I had thought to myself, when I locked my bike, that no-parking pavements built as wide as this one are a form of public extortion in violation of whatever rights we gullible citizens paid our taxes to enjoy. Yeah, I am an undergraduate in law. I think -and speak- nonsense every once in a while.

After the umpteenth fruitless attempt, my eyes locked on a very similar bike, which while I had dismissed earlier for not having the sticker, was rapidly growing more suspicious. It was the same model, the same color, with the same saddle height. And its license number was -078xxx, close enough to my own -077xxx. If a thief dragging a locked bicycle away in the middle of the town would have been too conspicuous, then only one thing not involving extraterrestrial creatures could explain the disappearance of my bike. Someone blissful AND ignorant might have mistaken my bike for his, and in turn rode it away.

But what were the chances? No two bikes could possibly have the same key, right? That was what I thought too, but then it became compelling to test my theory, and I took out my key. I almost scoffed at myself for trying to unlock a different bike with a different key, when…

Click.

Exclamation mark.

And the plot sickens. Trying hard to suppress my instincts as a law undergraduate to sue the store for not including any explanation about the shared lock in my bike manual, I racked my brain for the rational course of action I should take. Perhaps my bike’s twin there was really the culprit’s. Perhaps I really should just grab his for the meanwhile. But I had no evidence to show me it wasn’t otherwise. Perhaps an unfortunate soul just happened to own a bike of the same model and an ass of the same height. Perhaps by taking this bike, I would deprive the means for this unsuspecting person to return to his warm home. For all I knew, he might have to walk miles in the cold weather. And if it was true, then I would be taking the wrong bike, when all the while the thief was trolling on MY bike.

The implications were too much for me to swallow. Ultimately, I chose to just walk home that night – at least my home was barely a kilometer away. While I had done nothing of value, I swore that I would be claiming my share in Heaven when the time would come for this noble deed of shivering all the way home. It was the highest form of self-sacrifice, I’m telling you.

(And when I said it would be sweet and short? I lied. It is going to be long and bitter. My blog is a moldy piece of French bread.)

<<Saturday, 19 November 2011>> 08:30 ~ 09:15

I woke up with a slight pain in my neck. Sleep had been most uncomfortable, with half-remembered dreams of bicycles flying around. Just when I thought it couldn’t get any worse, it was raining outside. Now it would not have been a problem on a typical Saturday, but that day, I was going to Sophia University for a debate workshop (yes, I need to get a life). I had made an appointment with several friends to meet up at the station at nine and go together, but it seemed like I couldn’t make it in time now. I grabbed my cell phone and texted one of them. Paraphrased: Rain’s a bitch and I have to walk because my bike was stolen.

Not surprisingly, once I hit the “send” button, I did everything at my own pace. I took my time to get dressed and walk leisurely down the road. After all, a victim can be late and forgiven with the power of sympathy.

So there I was, striding past McDonald’s and heading for the station. But a thought stopped me. I turned and walked -nearly running, under my umbrella- back to where I parked my bike last night, and sure enough, there it was: my bike’s clone, sitting innocently while getting rained upon. I walked up and examined the thing. Still the same model, the same saddle height, and the same first few numbers. The one thing that changed was that a yellow sticker was now wrapped around the right handlebar, a sure sign that the police are getting ready to drag the unfortunate bike away.

Without much thought, I tore the yellow paper off. Then I took out my key, unlocked the bike, and rode it gallantly back to the parking lot in front of my university – the closest place from the station to legally park.

Wait, no, DON’T JUDGE ME! It was not a blatant theft! Let me explain the reasoning behind my actions:
1. The warning on the handlebar meant that the bike had been there the whole night. Abandoned bicycles in non-parking zones are taken away after a short amount of time, and everybody who parks there knows this, ergo, they finish their business quickly and flee with their bikes before you can finish reading this sentence. For someone to leave his bike this long to be dragged away, he had to either: a) be stupid, or b) have finished his business and fled with the wrong bike. Mine. I just confirmed that my bike had been swapped with this one.
2. Point 1 means this bike was my only clue leading to the person who took my bike. The police can extract certain pieces of information from the license number of a bike, address and phone number being two of them. If the bike was taken away, so would my only way to get into contact with the thief be – and I wouldn’t be able to retrieve it, because it was not legally mine. So I was just securing a clue.
3. Like hell was I going to lose another bike. At worst, I could use this bike as my own. At best, it was going to be a “hostage”, where I could demand to meet up with the thief, finish the transaction, and slap some sense into him. Or I could maybe make up stories about how I had to walk like tens of kilometers somewhere that day he took my bike, and demand a compensation for my frostbitten toes. Then he was going to be overcome with so much guilt and perhaps pay for my dinner…!? *evil laugh*

…People stop at nothing to justify their crimes, do they?

I marked the tree I parked the bike by. Then I left for Sophia University.

<<same day>> 19:00 ~

I arrived back in Kunitachi station. My umbrella had snapped thanks to the strong gale, which made two bad days in a row. I had to calm myself down by buying an overpriced Japanese KFC meal, which by the way still tasted awful. At least those chickens looked a lot healthier despite being dead. I chowed everything down quickly, and headed to the place where I parked “my” bike. Still there. I wiped the raindrops off the saddle in a slipshod manner, and rode it straight home, where next door there was a police box.

As usual, the derelict booth was dysfunctional. I didn’t hold my breath for it anyway. I used to joke with my friends about how a deserted police box is worse than no police box at all – it gives a false sense of security, which sucks if you consider the scenario of taking a refuge there when chased by a stalking pervert, only to find the place empty. Now that I was there, I realized it wasn’t actually funny.

A videophone was there on the desk. “Pick up the receiver,” the sign said, “you will be redirected to the police station.” Neat, that really helps. At least the police officers can witness the rape or murder from a monitor screen. I held the receiver to my ear and uttered my first “Excuse me”. Then I shouted the next one. The TV screen came to life.

“May I help you?” a middle-aged policeman inquired.

“I want to report a bike theft,  uh… swapping, to be exact.” I explained my predicament very carefully. The policeman on the other side nodded fervently, like he really understood my ordeal. Then came the bomb.

“I’m sorry, but we can’t help you now. You can go straight that road in front of you and turn right. A few minutes down the road and you’ll find a police station. Or you can go to the one near the Kunitachi station. They’re only open at daytime, though.”

A lesson in knowing Steve: You do NOT give him confusing directions to a place that is not open. You say it is not open FIRST, THEN give the directions so he can ignore them. Yes, he hates directions. Any complaints?

“Understood. Thank you.” was my curt reply with a delightful smile.

I hung up. All this meant was that I had to wait yet another day to exchange bikes with the culprit. Figured he could enjoy my bike for the night. Not for long, sir. Not for long.

Did I mention why I knew the culprit was a guy? I didn’t. I assumed it was a “he”, because with a saddle set that high, you had to either be a man or a helluva giant of a woman. I shudder every time I think of the latter, so I chose not to.

I parked the bike in the front of my apartment, and went to my room upstairs. Later that evening, a friend came over to stay. He, Yonaga, was quite the frequent visitor for sleepovers, and we two geeks talked about debate till sleep.

<<Sunday, 20 November 2011>> 10:00 ~ 11:00

Anyone who has slept on my snug, single size bed can attest to how hard it is to get out of. My friend and I (collectively, Yonagamori – long story) reluctantly rose and gussied up. We were supposed to be in the library by then, for yet another round of debate practice (yes, I heard you, I need to get a life!). At the rate we were moving, though, Antarctica would have melted by the time we arrived.

Not that I cared. Today, I was going to file a report to the police and righteously get my dear bicycle back. There is a saying about criminals returning to the crime scene. Well, that’s what people without balls would do. Badasses like me would be snatching a bike and riding on our loot straight to the police station. The great Lupin would be so proud of me.

I decided to carry out the grand plan as soon as the practice round was over, and as such, we rode our bikes, mine not really mine, to the university library. But no sooner had I parked the thing did I notice a familiar object by a tree nearby. It was a silver bicycle with a high saddle.

There must be an awful lot of these bikes these days, I thought. But a small part of me deep inside kept tugging at me to check the rear side of said bike. And my heart skipped a beat when I saw what was there. On the small sticker, written in black marker was the inscription I made with my own hands so long ago. It was as if the five letters were shouting out to me.

“STEVE”.

I FOUND IT! I swear I could have danced in joy if my friend hadn’t been watching. But more pressing matters here: I switched my long lost bike with the one I “stole”, and led it away from the tree – to another tree. There I had it locked, with enough spite to scare the shit out of anybody who dared attempt messing with the lock again. I then kissed the saddle with joy, for it was not until fifteen seconds later that I realized some other person’s ass had been on it.

I still couldn’t believe this wacky turn of events. I reckoned some thanks were in order.

Thank you, stranger who mistook my bike for his. Thank you for being a Hitotsubashi student. Thank you for coming to the library to study on a Sunday morning. Thank you for not peeling off the “STEVE” sticker. Thank – wait… WHAT!? A PUNCTURE!? ON THE REAR TIRE!?

That’s it. Readers, I give you the liberty to replace any gesture of gratitude in the paragraph above with obscenity. Preferably with a four-letter verb starting with an F and ending with a K.