We had some catalytic converter thefts in our neighborhood recently. This was news to me — alarming news, actually, because the last thing I wanted was a repeat of the 2023 catalytic converter crime wave that amused situation normies, but immobilized my Prius. The bearer of this news was my neighbor, Jon.
“Everything has gone to shit,” Jon said. “Two people on our block had their catalytic convertors stolen last week. The cops are useless.”
The utility, or lack thereof, of the local police is a common complaint among Angelenos these days. Violent crime is down, but the vibes are off. It’s a classic battle between data and lived experience. The homicide rate dropped 19% year-over-year, but toothpaste, deodorant, and everything else I need to stay fresh and clean is behind locked glass at Target. For me, it’s a head-scratcher. For some Angelenos, it’s a reason to reverse course on criminal justice reform. And for my neighbor Jon it’s an invitation to vigilantism.
“I wish I had been out there,” Jon continued. “I would’ve fucked them up.”
I believed Jon. Or, rather I believed that Jon believed he would’ve fucked up the thieves. The part I wasn’t so sure about was whether or not Jon was capable of accomplishing vigilantism. After all, Jon is pushing 60, overweight, and about as far from Chuck Norris (RIP) as you can get.
I laughed, but Jon didn’t, so I asked, “Are you serious?”
“Absolutely. I got a baseball bat.”
I also own a baseball bat, but I don’t think that makes me vigilante-eligible. Although, if you’re looking for forty-something left-fielder with bad ankles, poor eyesight, and penchant for chasing curveballs in the dirt, I am available and willing to bring orange slices and Capri Suns.
“I catch guys stealing copper all the time,” Jon said.
“Copper?”
“Yeah, they love to steal copper wire for some reason.”
The reason is simple. Copper prices are high, and it’s relatively easy to steal. Unless, Jon is watching.
“Do you have cable?” he asked.
“No, we cut the cord a decade ago.”
“Not me. I love cable.”
I pondered that. At work, sometimes I write about the streaming wars. I often wonder about the 40% of households that still subscribe to cable or watch broadcast television. Are they Luddites living off Brady Bunch reruns on TBS, or diehards who’ve barricaded themselves inside the legacy media bunker, determined to channel surf until the last channel broadcasts the final Star Spangled Banner sign off?
“I know the sequence,” he continued. “One channel starts go, then another, and another. That’s them literally cutting the cable.”
I wasn’t sure how to respond, so I said, “No shit?”
“No shit. And I know where the distribution box is. It’s around the corner.”
“And you’ve caught them?”
“I catch ‘em all the time. When the TV starts to go, I grab my bat and jump in my car.”
“What happens when you catch them?”
“I wait.”
“You wait?”
“They know I called the cops, but I know the cops aren’t coming. So I wait until they leave.”
“What if they don’t leave?”
“That’s where the bat comes in.”
“You hit them?”
“I wish.”
The winkle in Jon’s eye told me he meant it.
“Usually, when they see the bat, they take off running.”
“And that’s that?”
“No. I chase them. I get license plates. Pictures. Video. I phone it in to the cops.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, but the cops always say the same thing: stop chasing them, sir, this is a police matter.”
“Maybe you should listen,” I said. “You’re taking an awful risk.”
“Worth it.”
Jon’s certitude shocked me.
“You’d die for cable?”
“I’m not gonna die. I’ve got a bat.”
“What if they have a gun?”
Jon pondered the gun question as if for the first time.
“Then I’d probably stand down.”
“Probably?”
Jon didn’t like thinking about the gun scenario, so he returned to that part of the fantasy that all vigilantes enjoy, the part where they kick ass and take names.
“Honestly, I wish one of them would try something sometime. I wanna rock and roll. Get. It. On.”
“Or, you could just collect evidence and take it to the police. Maybe they catch these guys doing something else, and maybe your evidence helps them make the copper theft case.”
“No point. If they catch these guys, they’ll probably give them free college tuition and a safe space to talk about their feelings.”
Evidently, the copper thieves hadn’t cut the cable thoroughly enough to knock out Fox News.
“Well, I can’t stop you, and I guess I can’t talk you out of this vigilante thing, but promise me this: If you see someone trying to steal my shit, don’t get yourself killed trying to stop them. OK?”
“No promises.”
“Well, just try not to die for my shit. It’s not worth it.”
Jon was noncommittal. We said our goodbyes, and I finished my walk. When I returned home, I told Christina about my conversation with our local vigilante.
“I think we should get a gun,” she said. “I’ll pop a cap in someone’s ass if they come for your Prius, babe.”
“Weren’t you listening?” I asked. “Jon is on the case.”
“I know. But what if Jon needs back up?”
I got you.
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If the data says crime is down, why are the vibes off? Unhinged theories encouraged.
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Do you still have cable? Explain. No, really, explain.
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Are you a vigilante? Tell your story!
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Is your baseball / softball team looking for a left-fielder with bad ankles, poor eyesight, and penchant for chasing curveballs in the dirt? Hit me up.
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Are packing heat? Dish.