… and recovered. I suppose I should thank my lucky stars and garters that when shit gets stolen from me, it somehow finds its way home, but I’m in a really fucking bad mood about this.

I had to work in my SF office today, which has its own valet parked and locked garage. Naturally there are multiple signs and labels on the tickets to the effect that “even though you gave us your keys and we leave your car as closed or as open as we prefer, and in fact leave your keys in the ignition and the windows wide open, we are 100% not responsible for anything that gets jacked from your car.”

So, after checking my meetings, putting my phone on my passenger seat, pulling into the garage, getting my claim ticket and leaving to grab some coffee, I took off with my car in their capable hands. The iPhone was still on my seat.

a coffee and 10 minutes later, I returned to the lot to get my phone back. They wouldn’t bring it down and wouldn’t let me ride the elevator up to check. One of the dudes went up for me and found nothing in my car. Then he let me go up (walking 4 stories up the ramp, large signs of “no walking on ramp EVAR”, cars whizzing past me) to check it myself. Windows open, keys in ignition, none of the various valets I walked past even asked me what the hell I was doing in the garage where I shouldn’t be. Or came over to ask why I was swearing and rummaging through my car. Nothing.

I ran to my office–dripping with nerve and garage ramp sweat–to meet my job candidate, who I was really excited about. I got her settled in a room and ran back out to the receptionist who volunteered to call and get my service suspended while I did the interview. She was an angel. I gave a crappy interview and my hair and shirt were soaked, so I doubt I left a great impression.

Filled out a security report with the garage–every guy I talked to made sure I understood they were not responsible for stolen property. Fine, assholes. Decided to call it a day at noon, since I was in such an incredibly bad mood. Went to get serial numbers so I could file a police report when I hear my roommate Adam yelling at me from upstairs: “Stacia has your phone. Call her.”

W? T? F?!

She reported that “some guy named Xeno has your phone. Meet him at 301 Sacramento at 4pm to get it back.”

Go down there. Wait for 40 minutes holding my iPhone box and interrogating anyone walking past “ARE YOU XENO?!”

Jason went with me to mind the car, and he decided to call my phone. Even though the phone was confirmed suspended, it was ringing. So keep that in mind next time you need to do this, because Cingular not so handy with the turny off stuff, and not too sympathetic unless you turn it off the second its out of your possession.

Anyway, dude answered. Dude was around the corner, not at all where he was supposed to be. By the time I got there he had apparently already demanded a reward. I was planning on it, but jeezus. He was 50ish black dude, a few missing teeth, yellow eyes, and cracky as hell. He graciously accepted my reward when he found it was nontrivial. I asked him where he found it, and he reported that it was near the PG&E drop box in Chinatown. Okiedoke.

There is one unfamiliar number in the outgoing calls. Nothing else seems to be out of the ordinary. You can bet your ass I am going back to that garage and ringing the hell out of the number to see if I can track down a sneakythief valet, cause let’s face it: I have no proof, but the phone was in use by the time I made it back to the garage, and they were the only ones who had easy access to it.

I’m leaving town to chill the fuck out in Tahoe for a few days. With my iPhone.