Observe and Retort

A true crime story

“They broke into someone’s car.”

This is a helluva thing to hear from a senior citizen, first thing on a cold Nevada morning, two days before Christmas, in a hotel parking lot. But in the vernacular of the present, here we are.

“Is it your car?” the old woman asks.

“I don’t know. I just came out to walk him.”

I look down at Mortimer. My partner has business to do in this hotel parking lot, but that’ll have to wait. Someone broke into a car, possibly our car. Our new car. We don’t have time for your shit, Mortimer, literally and figuratively.

“Where?” I ask.

“Come with me,” the old woman says.

Mortimer and I follow the old woman in the direction of where we parked last night. I rack my brain. Did we take everything out of the car? There are signs posted every few yards reminding guests to remove their possessions from their vehicles. But did we do that? I think so, yeah, we must’ve. Right?

“There.”

The old woman points at a black car. We have a black car. Oh no…

But then I take a closer look, before glancing to my left. The black car with the broken window isn’t our new black car. Our new black car is three spaces away, and it’s fine! This is someone else’s bad day.

“Not our car.”

“OK, did you see anything?” the old woman asks.

“No. I literally just woke up, and I’m taking him for a walk.”

The old woman nods.

I nod.

Mortimer nods.

The old woman turns in the direction of the lobby and takes a few steps.

Mortimer and I turn in the other direction to do the business we came out here to do.

“What’s your room number?” the old woman asks.

I pause, a little startled by the old woman’s question. Why does she want my room number? My first thought is she’s hitting on me. That’s how these kinds of encounters go down, according to the TikTok videos I’ve seen. Who knows? Maybe she digs dudes with dad bods and big, bushy beards that radiate a Jerry Garcia vibe. Maybe. Or, maybe I’m so vain I think every Carly Simon song is about me.

“My room number…”

“Yes, you’re room number.”

The old woman’s face is stern. She isn’t hitting on me, I realize. But the question still confuses me. Maybe she wants my room number so she can charge snacks from the hotel convenience store to our room. Is this hotel a lawless outpost in the middle of an unforgiving desert? Possibly. But is this old woman a swindler? Have I stumbled into some bizarro con where the old woman startles her mark with news of a crime, then uses that opener to learn his room number so she can boost peanut M&Ms and Cool Ranch Doritos? Weirder shit has happened, but I’m not getting swindler vibes from the old lady. If anything, she strikes me as a curt Good Samaritan.

“You’re a witness,” she says. “I’ll report this. What’s your room number?”

A witness! Oh. That makes sense, I think.

“One eighteen. We’re in room one eighteen.”

“One eighteen.”

I give her my name.

“Michael Estrin,” she repeats. “Room one eighteen.”

“I’ll um… you know… report it too… just as soon as I’m done walking him.”

“Witness,” she says again, before heading toward the lobby to report the crime.

It takes us about ten minutes to do our morning loop around the hotel. Mortimer uses that time to mark his territory, while I contemplate my new role in life’s latest drama: WITNESS.

I’ve seen some shit in my day, but aside from a mock trial in junior high, I’ve never been an official witness. Thankfully, I have an active imagination and a good working knowledge of pop culture.

Am I a witness in the Mona Lisa Vito mold? The case in question involves a car, but it’s definitely not a ‘64 Buick Skylark, or a ‘63 Pontiac Tempest for that matter. Murder was the case they gave Mona Lisa Vito, but my case looks like petty theft. Also, she was an expert witness, and some say, a hostile one too.

Maybe I could be a witness like that kid from the movie Witness. I’m not Amish, and again, this isn’t a murder case. But I trust Harrison Ford with my life. And if movies have taught me anything, it’s that MacGuffins—the Ark of the Covenant, the Death Star plans, or a humble witness—are safe in Ford’s capable hands.

Or, perhaps I’m a witness from the Colonel Nathan Jessup school of witnessing. I didn’t order the break-in, or the code red for that matter, but I am willing to tell the truth, even if the person asking the questions can’t handle the truth.

I haven’t settled on a witness role model by the time Mortimer and I stroll into the hotel lobby, but all this cinematic daydreaming has imbued me with a confidence I usually need chemicals to achieve. We walk straight to the front desk to report a crime.

“Yes, a woman already reported the break-in,” the clerk says. “We’ve notified the owner of the car, as well as the police.”

“Did the woman who reported it tell you about me?”

“She said another guest discovered the break-in, but that he had to walk his dog, so she reported it.”

“That’s me! This is the dog.”

I point to Mortimer, who is sprawled out on the lobby floor.

“I’m Michael Estrin! Room one eighteen.”

“OK.”

“Don’t you see? I’m the witness!”

“You saw someone break into the car?”

“No.”

“Do you have any information about who might’ve committed this crime?”

“Well… no. See, I just woke up. And I had to walk him. And, well, I got out into the parking lot, and this old woman tells me about the break-in. But it’s not my car. So, dodged a bullet there. But then she says she’s going to report it. And she says I’m a witness. So here I am. I’m a witness.”

“Sir, you’re not a witness.”

Not a witness!? This is crushing news, like finding out that Mona Lisa Vito and Vincent LaGuardia Gambini got divorced, or that Colonel Nathan Jessup was later acquitted. Some other guest may have had their car robbed, but I’ve been robbed of a good role, damn it.

“If I’m not a witness, what am I?”

“You’re just a man walking a very adorable dog.”

And just like that, I’ve been cut from this low-stakes crime story. I could’ve been a witness, or whatever you call the person who reports the crime. But I had to walk Mortimer, and in doing so I broke the cardinal rule of show business: never work with children or animals because they’ll upstage you.

Mortimer upstages Bill Murray in a production of Pillow Fort General