GRAND THEFT AUTO...OR NOT?
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| T.G.D photo-bombing a lovely Ferrari! |
(This blog was originally posted by tgdindenmark1, June 18, 2014)
"When I think of Grand Theft Auto, I think of auto theft of the highest degree: a Porsche Carrera GT, stolen with the intent to parting it out and cashing in, comes to mind; or, a Ferrari heist gone bad, resulting in caravan of police cars chasing the stolen vehicle as the hot car skids in and out of traffic, all while being filmed by camera crews in helicopters, airing the commotion on national television news channels in real-time.
The vehicle I was accused of stealing: a 1986 purple Pontiac Grand Am…purple. (I know…!). Anyone familiar with a Grand Am, knows that there is absolutely nothing grand nor exciting about this type of vehicle, and it surely isn’t a vehicle worth making oneself a thief for. Although initially unaware of the allegation that day at Dallas International Airport, I knew exactly which vehicle I was being accused of stealing: This Pontiac Grand Am happened to be a company car which I used to drive while employed in Rock Springs, Wyoming, years prior to leaving the USA. The fact that I had already "dealt" with this nightmare of a car previously by being accused of the same crime, though not to the same decree, only to spend a few days inside of a jail cell...only to be released when the owner AND the state of Wyoming failed to file theft charges, due to the signifant fact that the vehicle was never stolen (we'll come back to that later) sent my entire existence into a state of confusion, as I once again had to deal with this sad excuse of a car which I used to refer to it as the “death machine”. Why? Well, that's what I am about to tell you: This non-aesthetically pleasing vehicle would not have passed a safety inspection in any other state other than Wyoming, where it seems as if every vehicle deserving an above-ground burial ages ago are still allowed on the streets. Anyway, the brake pads were completely worn, and they [the brake pads] were replaced by my friend, at my expense...just what one expects a car thief to do, right? (please read the sarcasm here)
Furthermore: the threads of the tires were at a dangerously unsatisfactory level, not to mention, the speedometer was nonfunctioning! The only way to regulate the speed was to move along at the same perceived speed of the other vehicles on the road, while hoping to stay within the legal speed limit. The gas light didn’t work either: there was, therefore, a need for constant calculation after fueling the “death machine”, approximating the quantity of the fuel which may be left according to how many miles driven.
Needless to say, this company vehicle, owned by Mr. Slumlord of Wyoming, was only used to drive about in the tiny town of Rock Springs, Wyoming, while picking up/ dropping off the cleaning crews, the house painting crews, bouncers, cooks, waitresses, and hostesses, as Mr. Slumlord also was a Mr. Restaurateur, which meant that all employees were all cross-trained to work wherever it was needed...whether they liked it or not...including myself. Usually, I was driving this vehicle filled with paint buckets stacked to the ceiling, spackle, giant paint rollers hanging out the window in the rear; and occasionally, there was also a kitchen sink riding along in the front passenger’s seat... all intended for the crews completing the necessary maintenance of the apartments of which I was put in charge to rent out, or for one of the restaurants, or bars which seemed to always be under renovation, as Mrs. Slumlord never quite was satisfied with the interior designs.
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| And here, T.G.D photo-bombing a not-so-lovely Grand Am! |
There wasn’t ever a reason to worry about the interior of the Grand Am becoming damaged while transporting various equipment or people, for that matter, as it was already utterly destroyed. A colleague’s pitbull made sure of that. One day, while bored and waiting for his master to return to the vehicle, the dog decided to tear apart the lining of the ceiling… as well as part of the back seat.
So, in the year of 2008, after a contract was drawn up, sealing the agreement thereof, between my LLC and the property management company of Mr. Slumlord, in Rock Springs with a provision in such contract, that a vehicle, including gas, should be available for me to use, in order for the job to be carried out properly...and how I remembered exactly this particular little clause, is because I was the one who drafted the contract; signatures unto the dotted lines...and, VOILA! The keys to the Grand Am with the missing ceiling, non-functioning speedometer, worn brake-pads, were handed over and hereafter, legally assigned to me!
The contracted job at the Slumlord & Co. was more than just an opportunity than to administrate the apartment complexes; to me, it provided a porthole to a gateway into the everyday lives of ordinary immigrants, thus being able to observe as well as interact with the very people being the main target of the immigration research task initiated by myself. Although, being an immigrant myself, I had no idea what being an immigrant was like for others in America. What spurred the moment of determination, other than a few bizarre run-ins, personally, with U.S immigration, (as previously mentioned in other blogs) to find out exactly what it means to be labeled immigrant, was a comment, which I find more despicable every time I think of it; it was not meant in harm, but it was ignorant, nevertheless. During a debate among friends in a group, the conversation dialed into the topic of U.S immigration, and naturally one member of the group referred to all immigrants as Hispanic. While sipping a glass of wine, I consciously remained silent and listening eagerly. When I believed it was the right time to join the conversation, I asked the individual why he would label every immigrant in the nation as Hispanic and reminded him that I, too, was an immigrant. “But, we do not count you as one,” he said and smiled. “You are not like them, darling.” That statement left me ever so puzzled. The more I thought of it, the more I had to regretfully agree, that I had no idea what it was like to be part of the immigrant community. All my friends at the time were either third or fourth generation Americans. My colleagues were all Americans. Sadly, the only interactions I had with other immigrants at the time was when occasionally greeting each other with a smile as they wiped off a restaurant table I was sitting at as a patron, washing my car, or cleaned my hotel room while on weekend holidays. After contemplating, I knew what had to be done. I had to know what it was like to be the stereotypical immigrant. Soon after, I traded in the lifestyle of living in a gated community, driving the Lexus RX 350, and gone were the weekend getaways; instead of having someone wipe off my table, I was the one wiping it off for American patrons, instead of having my hotel bed made by an immigrant, I was the immigrant making the beds for American, as well as international hotel guests. And while in charge of the administration of the apartment complexes, I painted walls, picked up garbage, ate lunch, and laughed right along with the other immigrant employees. They were Hondurans, Mexicans, Guatemalans… and then there was me, the one and only Dane. I finally knew what life was like for the ordinary immigrant in the United States of America.
Going back to the present time of the story, as I sat in the police vehicle in charge of transporting me to the first jail in a long string of jails to come, my mind was searching for any clues which may be stored in my memory of how I was going to tackle this big ugly fish of trouble on my hook , and which only I could reel in. Even though I had not seen the police report, and therefore had no idea what the claims were against me, I quickly assessed the value of the vehicle (or, lack thereof) which I was accused of stealing, and pulled from the memory a vague remembrance of only stolen items holding a value of one thousand dollars or more, was considered a felony, which a Grand Theft Auto/Larceny happens to be. The purple Pontiac Grand Am, under no circumstance, held a value of one thousand dollars. The thought comforted me as I knew right then that in the worst case scenario, I would receive an insignificant misdemeanor tagged unto my record, if I wasn’t able to prove my innocence. I found out later exactly that is what came to be. The recent incident of being “manhandled” by a female officer, thereafter handcuffed and dragged through a very crowded airport by no less than four officers, and while trying not to stumble in my high heeled sandals didn’t seem so traumatic now that I had realized that I may very well have the upper hand once in the court arena. I was ready for the nightmare…let the games begin!"
TO BE CONTINUED...
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