'Whatever I used to find fulfilling about stealing cars, the magic is just gone. I crave repudiation; any sign whatsoever that what I’m doing is wrong'
As Toronto bears the brunt of a massive spike in auto theft, a Toronto Police officer became infamous this week for suggesting in a public forum that residents start making it easier for home invaders to steal their cars. “To prevent the possibility of being attacked in your home, leave your fobs at your front door,” Const. Marco Ricciardi told a town hall meeting.
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In Dear Diary, the National Post satirically re-imagines a week in the life of a newsmaker. This week, Tristin Hopper takes a journey inside the thoughts of a Toronto car thief.
You ever seen that Twilight Zone episode where the career criminal dies after being shot by the police and goes to what he assumes is heaven? His every whim is satisfied: Women, money, fame. He goes to the casino and every hand is a winner, ever pull of the slot machine is a jackpot. The twist, you see, is that he’s actually in hell.
I was thinking about that episode as I skulked through a neighbourhood in the Danforth. I was walking up the front steps of a house with a Land Rover in the driveway, when the homeowner met me at the door, tossed me the keys, apologized for the Steely Dan CD in the stereo and expressed his “solidarity” with the life circumstances that had led me to this point. “We’re all responsible for what you’ve been forced to do,” he said.
Why does one become a criminal? We want to secure wealth and resources without working for them, of course — but that can’t fully explain this choice of lifestyle. If I merely wanted easy money, I would have become an ArriveCan contractor or a CERB fraudster; those guys don’t even have to go outside.
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It’s why one can’t discount the primal thrill of becoming an outlaw. The pirate doesn’t just want gold; he wants the liberating scent of sea air, the rush of abandoning the protections of civilization.
Anyway, I worked a house tonight with a yard sign reading, “No human is illegal.” The Volvo in the driveway was unlocked, the keys were in the ignition, a chilled bottle of water was in the cupholder and a handwritten card on the dashboard read, ”This house doesn’t believe in calling 9-1-1. Stay true to yourself.”
I ran into an old-timer today: A car thief who plied his trade in the 1970s and 1980s.
This guy was a master of the craft, let me tell you. It didn’t matter the make or model, he could slip the door locks, disable the alarm, hotwire the motor and even pop off the steering wheel club … and do it all in 30 seconds.
And he got shot at sometimes; either a pissed-off car owner letting off a couple rounds as he peeled away in the guy’s Trans Am, or a police car in hot pursuit down a Vaughan back road. “Wow, that’s badass,” I said as we knocked on the door of a townhome in The Beaches. The guy answering the door said we could steal his Lexus first, and come back for the Honda CR-V if we had time.
Don’t think I haven’t considered branching out into other crimes, if only to feel challenged.
Drug dealer? I mean … even there they’re just handing you the supply these days. You go to the “safer supply” clinic, request a few garbage bags worth of hydromorphone pills and flip it an hour later on reddit. Reddit! An eight-year-old could do that.
I suppose I could get into murder. But man, I don’t think I could take it if they ever caught me. Having some judge explain that I’m the “real victim” because of a troubled childhood or some such, and then spending 10 years playing ringette with Paul Bernardo? That’s just humiliating.
Steal a car, drive it to a shipping container in the suburbs. Steal a car, drive it to a shipping container in the suburbs. Steal a car, drive it to a shipping container in the suburbs.
Shipping container full. Go home, eat Hot Pockets and binge watch The Crown until starting it all again tomorrow.
Whatever I used to find fulfilling about stealing cars, the magic is just gone. I crave repudiation; any sign whatsoever that what I’m doing is wrong and has the disapproval of society. I yearn for risk. I miss the infamy; the days when there wasn’t an entry for “car thief” when filling out the “occupation” section of an online dating profile.
Maybe I should become a grocer?
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