IF there's one lesson being burgled will teach you, it's this: There's no greater defence against theft than not owning anything worth owning.
This is an idea that occurred to me some years ago when I arrived home after the Christmas long weekend to find that something was amiss with my apartment.
I was sure, for instance, that when I had left, the mattress had been horizontal. I also remembered the drawers being right side up, and I was confident - almost certain, in fact - that I hadn't left the patio door pried open.
A quick survey revealed that most of my things were still there (albeit they appeared to have been fought over by bears) but, marshalling my powers of deduction, I came to realize I had been the victim of a break-in.
Once the shock wore off, my first reaction was, naturally, to seek vengeance. I wanted whoever did this to be tracked down and brought to justice. Or at least tracked down and burgled back. But after checking under the bed, in the hall closet and inside the (very suspicious looking) shower curtain, I wasn't sure where else to track them, so I called the police.
The officer who arrived on scene immediately launched an investigation, quickly establishing that a) I had been burgled and that b) the culprit had probably come in from the patio, by simply asking me if that's what had happened.
At that point the investigation appeared to be concluded.
He then made several things clear:
1) Contrary to my expectations, they would not be involving a helicopter/dog team/Dirty Harry-style rogue detective who would recklessly disregard protocol to track down my missing iPod;
2) There wouldn't be a forensic team coming to "dust for DNA or whatever" because there probably wasn't any - and that no, even as a police officer of the 21st century, he didn't have a tricorder or something; and 3) My idea of who the burglar had been - i.e. a masked rogue in a stripy shirt who may or may not have a big, dopey sidekick and who was no doubt counting his loot and/or twizzling his moustache in a hideout as we speak (as opposed to trading my iPod for crystal meth as we speak) - was somewhat out of date.
I was taken aback. At least look for clues, I said. Whoever it was had used a crowbar, had targeted small, portable electronics, and had inexplicably disregarded my entire high-school-era CD collection. Surely that matched the M.O. of a known offender.
The officer patiently explained that scouring the downtown area for someone with access to a crowbar who didn't like Collective Soul was impractical, since that profile - and here, I was sure, he cast an unnecessarily rude glance toward my CD tower - matched anyone with taste.
I finally had to accept that I was about as likely to bring the culprit to justice as I was to hold the Sasquatch to account for making footprints.
The only solace for me was that he had taken my laptop, an aging, profoundly frustrating machine that weighed about the same as a cupful of black hole and had all the computing power of a set of fingers. I despised it with all my heart, and took deep satisfaction in imaging the '90s-rock-hating felon hauling it across town and trying to sell it. Felon: "Hello. I am an upstanding if unusually itchy citizen. Can I interest you in this computer?"
Fence: "This what? Who did you steal this from, HG Wells?" Felon: "It still works. Check it out."
Computer: "D-Uh. C: \?" Fence: "I'll give you negative $20."
Having turned my back on vengeance, I then turned my attention to prevention. And here I had a problem. My apartment, as the officer had made clear, had all the security of a wet gingerbread house. Built in 1970 - before crime was invented, apparently - one entire side was single-pane glass set in flimsy aluminum frames overlooking a secluded space filled with shadowy areas exactly the colour of burglars. Anyone who wanted to get at my valuables would barely have to slow down on the way in, he explained, and there wasn't a lot I could do to improve matters. (Some weeks later, my building installed an extra latch on the French doors, which was a nice gesture, but felt a little like planting a hedge to hold back lava).
I wasn't prepared to move at that point, but I knew I had to do something. Looking around my apartment at the items that had been left behind - a vacuum-tube TV, the Encyclopedia Canadiana, my Dark Angel box set - the answer came to me: Burglars don't steal things that suck. It's an idea that has governed my shopping and home decor choices ever since, and so far, it's worked like a charm.
So what if I'm the only man in town with a Discman? It plays Collective Soul just fine.
Kate Zimmerman is on vacation.
