a placeless world

You learn a lot about yourself at the moment that you charge into your own home to confront a burglar. About what you value. About what you don't.

My first thought, upon coming home Monday night to find my bedroom window forced open and the blinds torn down, was that I was glad my wife wasn't home when it happened. I wasn't worried about my DVD player. Wasn't worried about my fishing gear. Wasn't worried about my stereo.

Looking into my dark apartment through that window, I felt — for the first time since she returned to Oregon for her last term of college — grateful that the woman I love was 800 miles away.

My second thought was that, with the window open — possibly for the 72 hours I had been away from home — my cats might have fled. I wasn't concerned for my library. Wasn't concerned for my silverware. Wasn't concerned for my clothes.

In the seconds that passed as I surveyed the situation, my thoughts were on my wife and my pets.

In retrospect, it may have been wise to call the police in the seconds that came next. But if hindsight were foresight I'd be working for The New York Times. Does this look like The Times to you?

It was, I told myself, likely that whomever broke into my home had long since escaped. But not knowing whether the window had been open for minutes or days, I prepared myself for an alternate reality.

I banged on my door, turned the key, rushed in. A splitting moment of relief passed through my gut as I saw one of the two cats. I sprinted down the hall with my fists clenched and my arms cocked. I scanned the kitchen and ran back up the hallway, catching a glimpse of the other, smaller feline as I ran into the bedroom. Another moment of relief. I grabbed the heavy duty flashlight we keep by the bed. I slapped its heavy steel handle into my right hand. Back down the hall. Into the closet. Back up the hall. Into the bathroom. The lights were out, but my vision was clear. The one-bedroom apartment felt enormous with hiding places. Into the loft. Into the attack. Into the bedroom. Under the bed. Behind the doors.

I could hear my faucet dripping. My cats purring. I could smell the downstairs neighbors smoking. Camel Lights.

My pulse raged against the tightness of my collar. Once again around the home. Behind the shower curtain. Under the kitchen table.

God help me if I had found someone. Would I have struck them with my fists? With the flashlight? Would I ran away from my own home?

It was five, perhaps even 10 minutes after I concluded that whomever had come had also gone that it even occurred to me to evaluate my losses. The DVD player. The fishing gear. The stereo. The books and the silverware and my leather jacket. It didn't even seem to matter.

My wife was safe. My cats were safe. And I didn't have to learn whether I still knew all those cool moves I learned in karate class.

Which is not to say I wasn't pleased when I realized that nothing was missing.
Why the window was open and the blinds were dislodged I can't say. But what I gained — by not losing anything — I won't forget.