{"id":71340,"date":"2014-05-15T20:15:29","date_gmt":"2014-05-16T00:15:29","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=71340"},"modified":"2014-05-16T11:28:30","modified_gmt":"2014-05-16T15:28:30","slug":"hey-thats-my-snare-drum","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2014\/05\/15\/hey-thats-my-snare-drum\/","title":{"rendered":"Hey, That\u2019s My Snare Drum!"},"content":{"rendered":"
\"snare\"<\/a>

This drum is mine.<\/p><\/div>\n

Last week, the Times<\/em> recognized a new trend in vigilantism: do-it-yourself iPhone recovery<\/a>. When someone finds his phone stolen, he uses the phone\u2019s GPS to locate the thief; the resulting confrontations usually end peacefully, with the phone restored to its rightful owner and the thief shuffling off into the night, cowed and shamed. In one especially rousing case, a man rustled up the thief using OkCupid:<\/p>\n

\n

He lured the thief to his Brooklyn apartment building by posing as a woman and flirting with him on the dating service.<\/p>\n

When the thief arrived with a bottle of wine, expecting to meet \u201cJennifer,\u201d Mr. Nirenberg went up behind him, hammer at his side. He slapped a $20 bill on the thief, to mollify him and compensate him for his time and wine, and demanded the phone. The thief handed it over and slunk away.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

Instead of giving that man the key to the city, the fuzz have advised against this kind of justice. Of course they have: no one likes to feel redundant. In the supercilious words of an LAPD spokesman, \u201cIt\u2019s just a phone \u2026 Let police officers take care of it. We have backup, guns, radio, jackets\u2014all that stuff civilians don\u2019t have.\u201d As if LA\u2019s finest would, in their eminent wisdom, break out the flak jackets and heavy artillery to liberate your telephone.<\/p>\n

I\u2019m here to tell you: you can be your own authority. <\/p>\n

I\u2019ve never had my phone stolen, but last month someone nicked my snare drum, and I found myself in a similar circumstance. I play in a punk band called Vulture Shit\u2014a not-for-profit enterprise, obviously\u2014and the Shit does not travel light. If you live in the tristate area and you\u2019ve seen three groaning young men emerge from a bruised Nissan Pathfinder, their arms swallowed in a silver-black blear of hardware and impedimenta, all of it designed to induce early-onset tinnitus, and all of it in various states of dereliction \u2026 that may have been us.<\/p>\n

One night, we were playing in Bushwick, Brooklyn, at a high-ceilinged industrial building converted to apartments. The building retains the must and concrete brutalism of a factory: it\u2019s still, after all these years, a great place to chain-smoke and go deaf. We\u2019d unloaded our gear into a rasping, graffitied freight elevator, but when we carried everything to the stage\u2014i.e., some guy\u2019s living room\u2014my snare drum was nowhere to be seen.<\/p>\n

It turned up two days later on Craigslist. There was no mistaking its gold-sparkle finish, the Sharpied signature on its interior, and the thin Plexiglas strip that runs around its circumference.<\/p>\n

The sight of it for sale inflamed my sense of the proprietary. I felt my pupils dilate. There\u2019s a scene in Air Force One<\/em> where Harrison Ford discovers that the terrorists have nabbed his wife and daughter, and an intent grimace overtakes his face\u2014this was something on the order of that. I\u2019m a pacific man, but I imagined putting this guy (I assumed it had to be a guy) in the hospital. Then I imagined him putting me<\/em> in the hospital. I didn\u2019t like that, so I went back to the first version.<\/p>\n

I wrote him an e-mail: \u201cHey, would love to meet up tonight about buying that snare drum if possible!\u201d The exclamation point was, I thought, a friendly touch, unless he was somehow able to divine the bloodlust in it. A few long hours later, he called and agreed to meet me off the DeKalb L stop that evening. I alerted my two bandmates: we got him.<\/p>\n

Team Vulture Shit met in advance a few blocks away, where we took long sips of iced coffees and assured ourselves we were in control of the situation. The air was thick, the low gray sky about to break with rain. It was perfect standoff weather. All we needed was a piece of tumbleweed to drift across Wyckoff Avenue\u2014<\/p>\n

An empty bag of Ruffles sailed through the intersection.<\/p>\n

\u201cJust make sure you have the drum in your hands before you\u2026 \u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cShoulda brought my brass knuckles\u2026 \u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019ll take pictures of him on my phone while you guys distract him\u2026 \u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s good that he asked to meet in public, because that means he\u2019s as scared as we are\u2026 \u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cDo you really have brass knuckles?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAnd then we can show<\/em> him the pictures of him, and say, \u2018If you make a run for it\u2026 \u2019\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cShoulda brought my knife<\/em>\u2026 \u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cDefinitely say you\u2019ve filed a police report, even though you haven\u2019t\u2026 \u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cDon\u2019t accuse<\/em> him of stealing it, but maybe say, \u2018This is a one-of-a-kind drum! Where\u2019d ya get <\/em>it?\u2019\u201d<\/p>\n

We found the guy leaning against a bodega. His name was John. He was wan and goateed, smirking in camouflage pants, and he looked to me like a thief, though this was mainly because he had my snare drum sitting next to him. John, too, had brought a pair of friends, one of whom had a fresh shiner, as if his clock had already been cleaned that day.<\/p>\n

We all shook hands and as the contours of social space seemed to warp around us\u2014as my posture and the width of my stance took on exaggerated significance\u2014I understood, for a moment, the compulsion that makes men join gangs or start wars or bloody one another\u2019s faces. But the threat of violence, insofar as I felt it at all, was fleeting. In another second, I just felt like a weenie.<\/p>\n

I made a show of inspecting the drum. I unzipped the padded black case\u2014my case. Out tumbled a Vulture Shit set list.<\/p>\n

\u201cHey, you get a free set list,\u201d John said.<\/p>\n

\u201cThis is a one-of-a-kind drum!\u201d I said. \u201cWhere\u2019d ya get <\/em>it?\u201d<\/p>\n

John told of a mysterious friend who owed him a couple hundred bucks but had instead paid with this drum\u2014and then he\u2019d decamped to Florida. How generous of John, I thought, to accept material goods in place of currency, and to let his friend skip town.<\/p>\n

His friend\u2019s name, John said, was John.<\/p>\n

I had decided in advance to avoid using the words stole<\/em>, thief<\/em>, or reprobate<\/em> if I could help it; I wanted to preserve John\u2019s dignity, and in the unlikely event of the second John\u2019s existence, I wanted to preserve his dignity, too. Everyone in John\u2019s orbit, it seemed, needed to catch a break. They all had the uniquely downtrodden look of those to whom New York City has dealt a bad hand. Even the fictional John could find no better escape than a trip to Florida.<\/p>\n

Without meeting his eyes, I told the real John that I had a dozen pictures of myself playing this drum, and as many videos, and that the free set-list was my<\/em> set list\u2014I\u2019d had the drum not forty-eight hours ago a few blocks from here. \u201cIt is,\u201d I concluded, \u201cmy drum. And I\u2019ve filed a police report\u2026 \u201d<\/p>\n

I tightened my grip on the drum, which I held in front of my chest as a kind of shield. John, who was now in an aggressively casual slouch, sighed, exchanged what seemed to be a knowing glance with his friend, and feigned a surprised laugh, as if to say, Gosh, what\u2019re the odds!<\/p>\n

\u201cDamn,\u201d he said. \u201cI\u2019m gonna kill<\/em> my friend.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYeah, he fucked you over,\u201d my bandmate said.<\/p>\n

I found myself apologizing, reflexively. But the tension in the air had dissipated\u2014it was clear that I\u2019d leave with the drum, that no one was going to kick anyone\u2019s ass, though for hours after the fact we would debate whether or not we could\u2019ve \u201ctaken them.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWe never would\u2019ve put it on Craigslist so soon after stealing it,\u201d said John\u2019s black-eyed friend. \u201cWe\u2019re not idiots.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cBut now I\u2019m still broke!\u201d John said. We all laughed. He\u2019d intended to spend some of the four hundred dollars I\u2019d offered him on a bottle of Fireball, everyone\u2019s favorite cinnamon whiskey. \u201cAny chance I can get a finder\u2019s fee?\u201d<\/p>\n

We gave John a few more bucks than we should\u2019ve\u2014more than zero, in other words\u2014and parted ways.<\/p>\n

It\u2019s increasingly plausible for the victim of a theft to solve his own crime. Involving the police, in my case and many others, would have complicated what was a civil, if tense, public exchange. I had a mildly unpleasant encounter with a guy who\u2019s kind of an asshole and needs money. Of course, a future glutted with traceable personal property will bring other problems. But that LAPD spokesman encouraged us to construe a world without cops as a Hobbesian state of nature\u2014to assume our communities are so frail, our capacity for empathy so limited, that we could never assert ourselves without sundering the fabric of social justice.<\/p>\n

The Times<\/em> caught up with a young woman who went directly to her thief\u2019s doorstep. He was a large man, and she had to repeat herself\u2014\u201cI think you have my phone\u201d\u2014before he finally conceded. \u201cWhen she was asked by text message if she would pursue a future pickpocket, she typed an unequivocal reply on her recovered phone: \u2018Yes, def.\u2019\u201d I would like to tell her that Vulture Shit has her back, even if the LAPD does not.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Last week, the Times recognized a new trend in vigilantism: do-it-yourself iPhone recovery. When someone finds his phone stolen, he uses the phone\u2019s GPS to locate the thief; the resulting confrontations usually end peacefully, with the phone restored to its rightful owner and the thief shuffling off into the night, cowed and shamed. In one […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":38,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[4393],"tags":[958,3893,5866,7313,282,13930,13931],"class_list":["post-71340","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-first-person","tag-brooklyn","tag-bushwick","tag-craigslist","tag-iphones","tag-the-new-york-times","tag-thievery","tag-vulture-shit"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\nA New Trend in Vigilantism<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"Dan Piepenbring on do-it-yourself iPhone recovery.\" \/>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" href=\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2014\/05\/15\/hey-thats-my-snare-drum\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"en_US\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:type\" content=\"article\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:title\" content=\"Hey, That\u2019s My Snare Drum! by Dan Piepenbring\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:description\" content=\"May 15, 2014 \u2013 Last week, the Times recognized a new trend in vigilantism: do-it-yourself iPhone recovery. 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