When someone steals your wallet, this is what you pay for

From time to time a Humid Gust of Bad Intent shaped like a female human being may emerge from the bog of eternal deceit and stand immediately behind you in the checkout line at Trader Joe’s. How to know? This creature will be returning a loaf of bread and demanding her money back because, she will tell the cashier, “it molded after awhile.”

As you load your “posh tote” reusable grocery bags, she will steal your wallet from the checkout counter, pocket your identity, plot to forge your signature numerous times and temporarily shred your life into ribbons of terror and rage.

This happened to me last Thursday.

At 8:45 a.m., as I trudged out of the Trader Joe’s in the Market Place with a posh tote on each shoulder, I heard someone complain that her bread was defective.

“Who returns bread?” I wondered, and when I turned to look, I saw: the woman in hot pink pants who had been standing behind me, her braided hair framing a scowl. “It takes all kinds,” I thought, “but that’s ridiculous.”

It was also robbery, although I didn’t know it, yet.

At 9:02 a.m., I boarded the Passport bus, looking at my iPod to confirm that, yes, I was running late. At home, I hurriedly unloaded my groceries—it was already time to board another bus to class at Long Beach State.

By afternoon, when I got home and realized I didn’t have my wallet—it was not on the kitchen table or in the posh totes—the Humid Gust of Bad Intent had executed a day of spending at my expense.

After hyperventilating, pounding my fists, staring in hot-tempered, cold-sweat incredulity at my on-line bank statement—which already displayed a half dozen charges I hadn’t made—I began canceling my credit cards, closing my bank accounts, reissuing my drivers license and reclaiming my identity.

Before my mind gave out for the night, I called the vendors who had serviced the Humid Gust of Bad Intent. They were pretty easy to locate—the dicey upside of living in an era when everybody can find everything about you is that you can find it, too. My Citibank online statement gave explicit details. Google provided exact phone numbers, addresses and contact names.

I also called the Long Beach Police Department to file a report. That wasn’t quite so easy. The man told me to call the LBPD East Division. It was closed—I couldn’t file my report until 8 a.m. the next morning. Good-freakin’-night.

At 6 a.m. Friday, I awoke ferociously. “This bitch is going down!” I snarled out loud to the new day, probably scaring the poor thing to death.

At 8:33 a.m. I called East Division.

“Long Beach Police Department East Division, this is Nelson.”

“Hello, I’m calling to report that my wallet was stolen yesterday from the Trader Joes on PCH. I have suspect information.”

“Do you know who stole it?”

“No, but I know what she looks like, and there’s video footage.”

“Hang on.”

Silence.

“Here’s your report number: 0782884.”

Nelson asked what was in my wallet. He recorded my contact information.

“What do I do now?” I asked.

“Well, you have your report number.”

“But what happens next? Do I contact a detective or something?”

“No, you just have a report number. Someone will call you.”

I hung up. I don’t know exactly what I’d expected, but it fell into the category of “more.”

As I drank my coffee, I scanned the places the Humid Gust of Bad Intent had visited with my ATM card. I wondered: Where would you go if you’d just evilly acquired access to spend somebody else’s money?

Would you go straightway to a Mobil gas station to fill your tank with $37.17 of Super Unleaded, then drive around to get a $10.99 Deluxe car wash?

(By the way, would you notice the security cameras at that gas station/car wash, which at 8:54 a.m. began collecting video of your silver four-door Kia Sportage with the dented rear passenger side as you cruised around the premises—which was even recording your voice as you asked the cashier for hand wipes to clean up the gasoline you’d spilled?)

Would you then—with a full tank, a clean beat-up car, but an empty stomach—zip over to the IHOP on Bellflower Blvd. for a $15.78 breakfast, to go?

(By the way, would you worry because IHOP has security cameras, too, which at 9:44 a.m. were capturing your smile as you forged somebody else’s signature and inserted their debit card back into their wallet, then into your purse—which brought out LBPD Officer R. Cawley, who viewed the footage and assigned the case a new report number?)

Would a belly full of pancakes make you feel so saucy that you’d float over to Blue Ocean Nails & Spa, where at 1:47 p.m. you’d make somebody else pay for $45 of cuticle beautification?

Would you eventually cart your gussied-up self to Long Beach State and charge somebody else for your parking passes at a ticket kiosk—buying a two-day pass at 2:12 p.m., then five minutes later returning for a five-day pass . . . that’s perhaps sticking to the windshield of your car right now, with the last four digits of somebody else’s debit card printed on it?

Maybe you wouldn’t. Then again, maybe you’re not the kind of person who would return a loaf of no-preservative bread.

But you would still be on the loose.

Although I know where this Human Gust of Bad Intent has been, what her ride looks like, what she looks like, what she likes to eat, maybe where she goes to school and certainly that she’s got a fetish for nail jewels, my report with the Long Beach Police Department hasn’t been filed yet. The Campus Police have their hands tied, because the LBPD is overseeing my case.

Meanwhile, this Human Gust of Bad Intent goes on breathing, burning gas, digesting pancakes, maybe even stealing someone else’s wallet. If you hear somebody trying to return bread, hold yours a little tighter.

Tags: credit card theft, human gust of bad intent, identity theft, ihop, lbpd, long beach police, thief