Car theft in New Orleans

Drive it Like Ya Stole It!
By
Debbie Lindsey

“She’s gone.”
“No. Noooooooooo…”

On Nov. 24th as New Orleans was splayed across national headlines as the number one city in overall crime, she fell victim to New Orleans' dark side, becoming one more statistic--one more to flounder into the perilous abyss.
She is now known to Detective Watt as case #75624-A23. The crime report lists her as a 1997 blue Ford Econoline van. But to us she was a periwinkle blue beauty despite her rather ungainly stature. We had assumed that her somewhat homely look would immune her to theft, protect her from rogue advances.
“Why’d anybody wanna steal that piece of junk?” Scott our bartender asked.
“The keys were in the door”
Scott, ever the sage bartender and quick to dispel the wisdom that is honed over years of public relations, reflected and said, “hmm”.
Yes, to some she was just a workhorse, but her humble looks belied the noble-deed-doer she was. And to those whose welfare rested within her Spartan
interior she was a hero, not to mention an ambulance, moving van, delivery truck, vacation wheels and all-a-round good sport.
After Katrina, our move back to New Orleans was contingent upon having an evacuation vehicle for the next time. Having to remain six days in the aftermath of busted levees with responsibilities to seven animals depending on us to get them safely out taught us some lessons. Stealing a car (well…kinda, returned to owner three days later) will not always be an option…so we set out to find the perfect evacuation clunker for under 2,000. And we did.
I was a bit put off at first. Her previous owner/owners had little regard for her. The inside had been stripped of all luxury trappings such as panels, back seats, flooring. The driver and passenger seats were worn, torn and scooped out leaving butt size hollows of foam rubber. The fabric (of sorts) that remained over head had graffiti etched into it with a rather varied assortment of colorful words.
It took a little time to appreciate her but with our first hurricane season since Katrina brewing I rushed my affections. And with some bed pillows in the seats, the wooden floor Boyfriend designed for the van, “Shop Local” and “Save our Lake” bumper stickers and a pair of fuzzy dice hung from the rearview mirror our periwinkle blue evacuation clunker became ours, rust and all. And it even took on the role of “shop van” when we slapped on our magnetic “Kitchen Witch Cook Books” signs--allowing us to park with the big boys in freight zones.
I have never been a cheerleader for car (truck or van) ownership, hell I don’t even drive, but for two years our periwinkle blue metal tank drove us. The interior was about the size of my apartment and therefore we were enlisted to play the role of a moving company. And lucky for us, because when Boyfriend and I assisted our friend Gallivan in his move from love-gone-bad to a place out near the Fair Grounds we found our new home and a quality of life we’d been sorely in need of. Next door to Gallivan was the perfect place for the van to move us a month later.
Yes, she rushed sick pets to the vets; evacuated us from Gustav despite her huffing and puffing through the gridlock with a damaged radiator; took us on vacations and allowed us to visit hospitalized friends where buses or bikes could not go.
Oh, the good times we had tooling about in our periwinkle clunker—until that fateful day.
Grief often leads to anger and in the case of a
crime – vengeful thoughts. I would comfort myself with the vindictive assertion that crime itself would corral the perpetrator and street justice would prevail.
You see, unknown to the thief, the van would continue to roll backwards even in park with the engine off (the only way to prevent this was with the emergence brakes applied). The scenario of poetic justice I enjoyed most was: Idiot van-napper parallel parks in front of this big nasty fancy and very expensive drug dealin’ SUV and of course Idiot unwittingly rams the front-in of the very big nasty fancy and expensive SUV. And who do think steps out of said chassis but a really big and very nasty drug dealin’ and gun totin’ motherfucker. When threatened with a pistol-whippin Idiot van- napper screams like a girl and wets his pants. The cops respond to the commotion (it’s my fantasy and they can come to the rescue quickly if I want) and surprise, surprise – Idiot and Motherfucker both have outstanding warrants against them.
The periwinkle blue van, emboldened by the events, assumes the alias of “Super Van”, kicks on the ignition, slips into gear and is off to rid the city of crime.
So after the grief, anger and vengeful flights of fantasy next you move on. It was time to let go and face the future.
We found our future on Craig’s List. A 1994 Lincoln Town Car Cartier fully loaded with every useless luxury gizmo. She was no Periwinkle Blue Van but she was a beauty to behold. And most important, this aging prima donna, once listed at forty grand, was ours for 1,900.00. She’s one big car. You could place a dance floor on the hood and a small wedding party would have room to spare. You could rent the trunk out as a studio apartment. And the back seat with its pillow top leather upholstery is the perfect spare bedroom for company.
When we sealed the deal and drove her away from her neighborhood we just knew she had a suppressed wild side. She may have looked like a Metaire country club roadster but we could sense the Gentilly spirit in her. We kicked on some hip hop, hung our fuzzy dice from the rearview mirror and drove home to fetch the dogs for a cruise through our hood. She is now our low ridin’ evacuation, shop car, pet mobile wheels.
And if our periwinkle blue beauty is ever recovered (after heroic adventures) I guess we will have to become a two car family despite the fact that I still do not drive.