peripheral Vision pays off

1:30 am must be the witching hour. Things disappear, things reappear. Big things. Whole houses, even.

Adam and I decide to go dancing and invite our friend Marc, who also just had stuff stolen - from his house. Adam and I have wanted to go to this particular shindig for quite a long time, and now that we live here in Oakland for the time being, such things are easy. The event is called Vision. As we walk into Il Pirata on 16th Street, no one cards us or charges us a cover. We hear the beats, but don't see a dance floor. We are wondering if we came to the right place, on the right night. We stride past the bar, where 10 or so people are scattered amongst barstools and tables. We round the corner, following the bass rhythm. Up a short flight of stairs is a dance floor. One person moves with the music, standing just outside center stage, where a huge image of a dancing vixen enthralls the perimeter of people on the edges of the room. We see our friends - behind the equipment. We say hello and hug those we can reach easily. Eventually some more of those wonderful people we know show up, and soon there are 4 or 5 people on the dance floor. The music ramps up to a point at which my body does not sit still, and I move into the fray. Soon I am dancing hard, and I hardly need to consciously direct my limbs at moments. It feels so good to move! I have been aching for thumping music and an inviting space and people to dance with. The energy goes up for a while, but then we all need a break from our happy exertion, and the dance floor dies down. We go out to the car and eat some food I left in the trunk: a crisp fuji apple, brazil nuts. Marc went out earlier to hunt down something edible after realizing he hadn't eaten dinner and his favorite drink seemed stronger than usual. He came back with cheetos, starbursts, and a slim jim. Grinning broadly, he chows down.

On the way back, we talk about looking for the van. To our surprise, Marc agrees to tag along while we drive around for the 4th time in search of the van we fear we will never find, though we are hoping very sincerely that it's nearby. We tool around several dark streets on the West side of Telegraph, then head for home, having seen quite a few Vanagons, but not our beloved Trogdor. Adam decides to head us there in a different direction and comes up our cross street from the south. We are 3 blocks from home, and I catch a glimpse of the white roof of a van down a side street. "Marc, was that a Vanagon back there?" I say with a feeling that it was. "Yeah, let's turn here and circle back around." We do.

Our eyes pop and our mouths drop: it's there. Our van. Our pod. In one piece.
Oh, My God! It's just parked as if nothing were out of place on this nice-looking side street where there are shiny SUVs and little sports cars. Rich Street, in fact. We are in as quiet an uproar as we can muster. Not wanting to stop next to it in case the thief is inside, we keep going and park out of sight on the cross street. I dial 911. This is getting to be familiar. The dispatcher answers, and I start to speak, but I can't organize my thoughts in the least. "I'm calling to say that our-um-wait...I don't know how to say this...Okay, our van was stolen on Monday, and we just found it, and we think someone might be sleeping in it, and that's why we're calling you." My adrenaline is rushing like the American River where we camped with Emily on our way to Saline Valley. I say all the necessary things to the police officer as I try to keep my head on straight while Adam exuberantly punches the air and he and Marc are laughing triumphantly. We all feel like we're in a PI thriller.

Now, we wait for the cops to come. We wait. We realize it will be a while. We speculate on the thief, imagining whether he is in there or not, what he thought when he left it parked there with the trailer still attached. There is a cat meandering around the car, on the sidewalk. It looks suspicious and not too smart (it's awful curious about cars, and you've heard the story about feline snooping). We exclaim and realize everything - every person who wanders down this street, every cat, every plastic bag - looks suspicious to us at this point. We keep thinking that we see the cop's lights on the stop sign to our left, but it's just the wind moving the shadow of the trees. Suddenly the cat is on the hood of the car and Adam is reeling in shock, his arms flailing out toward the cat and onto the steering wheel. We suddenly burst out laughing and all our tension pours out into the air. Adam puts on the windshield wiper fluid and the cats leaps off the hood, slinking around the side again. Marc says, "Okay, now can we go house to house looking for my computer?" Our laughter regales the interior of our rental car and we imagine this ridiculous canvassing effort with huge smiles on our faces, wishing something like that could actually work.

Marc and Adam want to see whether the people we've seen walking down Rich Street have anything to do with our van. I remind everyone that if we see someone go in or out, we're supposed to call the police again with a special direct line in that bypasses the hold queue. We discuss it for a moment in urgent tones. He finally gets out and walk to the head of Rich Street where he can see the van. The cops arrive and circle round. I get out and join my investigative posse. I get the call they promised from dispatch. I tell them we see the officers. I ask them what we're supposed to do. "Make contact with the officer," she instructs me. "Okay," I say with utmost seriousness, blood singing in my ears, reminding me fervently that I have a body and that I can run very fast if necessary. I am not to thrilled to be out repossessing a stolen vehicle in club clothes, but now that the cops are here, I feel less vulnerable. We walk briskly, arms crossed, down the one-way street where 2 police cars are waiting in the middle, shining their brights through the tinted windows of the van. Introductions ensue. The officer jots down our information. Adam asks if he can take a look inside. I quickly inquire as to the existence of a person within. Officer J. Majucurado assures us he's vanquished that possibility - it's empty.

We can't believe we found the van! Even more amazing is the interior: completely unchanged since last Thursday, when all the stuff was stolen out of it. Things like Adam's camelback and the vent cover are even in the same places on the floor. Same with the trailer! Laundry detergent and car jack and nalgene bottle all sitting there unassumingly, dull and dusty. Hallelujah! All it needs is a jump start. The thief left the rear interior light on. He didn't close the sliding door completely. Those are the only things out of place.

Jubilantly, we arrive back home at about 2:15 am. We bid Marc adieu. Adam puts the club we just bought on the steering wheel and disconnects the distributor cap. We can't believe our luck. We'll be driving our van to Harbin Hotsprings tomorrow. YIPEE! The absence of our van has made our hearts grow fonder, to be sure. Fond hearts feel good:)