I went after my first vehicle when I was 22 years old. I was just starting to work in the City then, for the model shop of a big engineering company. I spent my time building Plexiglas miniatures of power plants and refineries. I started to pull my hair back, out of range of the power tools, and to give the machines less purchase I didn’t wear a tie. I avoided inhaling the solvents, which was a challenge in that basement shop; the ventilation system was old and not always in order. I did chew on the small plastic pieces, but I selected clean ones, and I figured plastic-chewing was no less healthy than nibbling on my own fingernails.

I was married then. Jenny and I commuted to work on bicycles. We’d start our morning in the coastal fog, layered in outerwear, and shed cover as we topped each of the hills between home and work. By the time we hit the flat financial district, we were warm, damp, and coated with vehicle soot.

One memorable Monday morning, we rode disrobing as usual until we came around the Embarcadero, and we encountered stalled traffic a few blocks from my shop. A jitney driver honked behind us, for no reason other than frustration, and the noise startled Jenny into turning toward it. The traffic ahead of her stopped at that moment, and she plowed into the back of a car. The incident infuriated me. Without thinking of consequences I grabbed the first protrusion I could find on the jitney, and I wrenched. The driver-side wiper came off in my fist.

By then Jenny had pulled her banged bike up onto the curb, so she witnessed first-hand the jitney driver’s attempt to run me down. I was just nimble enough to get me and my machine onto the sidewalk and behind a sign pole before the driver could reach me.

The asshole wouldn’t leave well enough alone. His jitney was new, his wipers hadn’t been used, and he was pissed. He insisted on involving the cop who was trying to direct traffic through the intersection a half block ahead of us.

Of course the cop had other things on his mind. A car had fallen into a sinkhole an hour earlier, and the resulting crater was cobbing the intersection and attracting rubberneckers. He had enough to do managing the grouchy traffic. He made us wait a bit, and then settled our dispute by agreeing that yeah, of course the driver could charge me with malicious mischief if he wanted, but if the driver did that, then the cop felt he’d have to advise me to counter-charge for felony assault with a deadly weapon. The driver retreated, obviously irked, while I held onto the mangled wiper. I had my first real taste of power.

I’ve told the jitney story to scads of people, at parties, meetings and parades. It gets chuckles of appreciation, even from the auto addicts. But I haven’t told anyone what that heady experience led me to.

I don’t have Jenny any more, but I still have the wiper. It moves whenever I do, so it has managed to stay put for the last eight years in my small Mission district carriage house (I like to call it that, and that’s how my landlord first described it to me over the phone, but it’s really just an apartment built above a detached garage).

I’m the lone ranger of malicious car mischief. I’ve nurtured this calling in silence for 26 years. I’m ready to take a chance on conspiracy now.

I’m not naïve. I know that the only way to keep a secret is to tell no one. I remember the old joke about the golf-addicted priest. It’s really a fable. The guy can’t resist golfing on Sunday even though it would be a Sabbath sin. He sneaks onto the links. He gets a hole in one. He can’t tell anyone. Yeah.

This is weird, writing it down. But I figure if I’m going to start talking, I ought to practice. My computer’s old, but the word processing program is usable. I can lock this file with a password; I can delete it or trash the machine if I get uncomfortable. It’s a lot less risky than taking on a cohort, and I plan to start that tomorrow.

Shit. It’s raining right now. If this goes on, I won’t even see Joe tomorrow; we show up and shelter near the Citicorp building if the weather is showery, but full rain on a Friday pretty much cancels us. I still have some good hooch. It’s time to fire up the pipe and catch The Three Stooges on the Family channel.