My motorcycle was normally parked beside my Craigslist SUV, which sat in my assigned parking stall in the underground parking garage. In the other assigned stall, Jessica’s vehicle was parked.

On a Sunday evening, I moved the SUV into the parking lot to make room for me to work on the motorcycle. Parked beneath the basement lights, I adjusted the carburetor, set the tire pressures, and checked every nut and bolt for tightness.

The MC’s poker run was fast approaching. Jessica was excited to participate. I was equally excited for her to attend. Our turnout for the event normally exceeded a thousand bikes. Expressing the feeling associated with hearing the rumble from a thousand motorcycles was impossible.

Witnessing it was breathtaking. Participating in it was a life changing experience.

When the mechanical work was done, I waxed the painted surfaces to a high gloss. After polishing the chrome to a mirror-like appearance, I admired my work.

Satisfied the bike was ready, I went upstairs and ate dinner. The next morning, Jessica took the children to daycare. An hour later, while I was drafting my upcoming novel, Finding Parker, she returned.

She handed me a cup of coffee. “Where’s your car?”

“It’s in the parking lot,”

“I saw it out there last night,” she said. “But it wasn’t there this morning.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean it’s not there.”

The SUV, a Chevy Tahoe, would be an easy vehicle to steal. All General Motors products were. A screwdriver was all that was required to drive one of them away.

I knew all too well what the risks were in having a GM vehicle that was desirable to thieves. In my twenties, I had a highly-modified Oldsmobile Cutlass. After spending thousands of dollars getting it painted, installing a high-horsepower engine, and reupholstering the interior, it was stolen.

The theft left me feeling vulnerable. It reminded me that despite my honesty, not all men are honest. My intimidating personality, the permanent scowl I wore, and the sleeve of tattoos did nothing to deter a thief that had no idea who he was stealing from.

A month later the vehicle was recovered in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania. Having it returned did nothing to diminish the feeling of helplessness I suffered in having it taken.

Upon getting the car home, I promptly sold it.

Then, immediately following my release from prison, I traded a motorcycle for a Chevy Suburban. The extensively modified four-wheel-drive resembled a monster truck. Fitted with a lift kit and forty-four-inch tires, the vehicle wasn’t something I wanted, but it was more valuable than the motorcycle by thousands of dollars.

The trade would allow me to sell the Suburban for three thousand more than the motorcycle, coming out much further ahead than if I’d simply sold the motorcycle outright.

The massive truck was far too large to fit beneath the garage door opening of the underground garage, so I parked it in front of the loft, in the busy street beside the bar.

The next morning when I went to work, the vehicle was gone.

I rushed to the remote farmhouse of the three-hundred-pound thief who traded it to me. Certain that he had traded the vehicle, kept a spare key, and later returned to take it back, I pounded on his door filled with a plan to administer vengeance.

He answered the door wearing nothing but boxer shorts. As he wiped the sleep from his eyes, I began my verbal assault.

“You motherfucker,” I howled, my right hand resting on the knife that was clipped to my right pocket. “Did you really think you could steal that truck without me coming here to get it? Where the fuck did you put it?”

The look on his face hinted that he had no idea what I was talking about. The ten-minute-long conversation that followed confirmed it.

He hadn’t taken the vehicle.

I apologized and left feeling foolish and, once again, vulnerable.

It was found in Wal-Mart’s parking lot a year and a half later.

Now facing what would be my third vehicle theft, I looked at Jessica and shook my head. “I’m sure you just missed it.”

“Missed it?”

“You drove past and didn’t see it.”

“I’m not an idiot, Scott.”

I didn’t think she was an idiot. I simply thought she was blind. I went downstairs. Upon entering the parking lot, my mouth fell open.

Someone had stolen my vehicle.

Again.

In talking to the maintenance men, I learned the vehicle was parked out of the field of view for the security cameras.

I returned to the loft feeling the same vulnerability I’d felt the previous two times. Having one’s vehicle stolen leaves the victim much more than carless. The cowardly act left me feeling, at least on that occasion, weak.

“Well?” Jess asked.

“Someone stole it.”

“How?” she asked. “The parking lot is gated. You need a clicker to get past the gate.”

“They make remotes that will break the code to the gate.”

“Who does?”

“Companies that cater to thieves.”

“That’s dumb.”

It was dumb, but it was true. Frustrated, I sat at my stool and called the insurance company. Then, I called the police.

“What are you going to do for a vehicle?” she asked.

“What’s your dream vehicle?” I asked.

“One of those four-door Jeeps? Why?”

“Get on the internet and find the one you want,” I said. “That’s what we’ll do to replace it.”

“Really?” she shrieked.

“Really.”

Two weeks later, I flew to Phoenix, Arizona and picked up the exact vehicle she wanted. When I returned home, her appreciation was expressed in the form of tears.

To me, it was nothing more than a vehicle with a removable top. To Jess, the Jeep was a way of life.

It was her motorcycle. A means of cleansing her soul of the horrors from her past.

From that day forward, her hair was never the same.