As the Tide Turns

My friend, Ted poked his head in the back door, the humid New Orleans morning creeping into my bedroom. I was catching up on emails after three days of Jazz Fest partying. He was doing a load of laundry. “Are you sure you have detergent?” he asked.

I charged outside to the washer/dryer closet. “You’ve got to be kidding me!”

The louvered doors were wide open. I rummaged around the bag of charcoal, beach chairs, and potting soil on the shelf above the appliances, knowing full well that I wasn’t going to find the 50-ounce liquid Tide Original I had just purchased. 

“That’s it. I’m calling the police.”

The detergent thefts had started a couple of months back. I had been watering the pots of impatiens on my deck as Jacques, who lives on the other side of the shotgun double, was doing laundry. “Have you seen my detergent?” she asked. “I just bought some at the store. I could have sworn I put it out here.”

“No,” I said, thinking she must have accidentally left it in her cart. While our neighborhood was at the edge of sketchy, seriously, who was going to sneak into our backyard to steal detergent?

But one month later, I reached up to grab my Tide after filling the washer with dirty clothes, only to end up with a handful of air. My detergent was MIA. 

Embarrassed, I texted Jacques, “Tide stolen.” Then I called our landlord, Henry. 

The utility closet is in the back of the house, obscured from view. Just like I doubted Jacques, I expected him to think I was nuts. Nevertheless, the thought of a total stranger lurking practically outside my bedroom door creeped me out.

I presented my case to Henry. Two no-account brothers had been living in the house that abutted the backyard. Strippers, frat boys, and lowlifes were parading by day and night for what had to be drugs as neither one had anything else to offer. 

“Henry, I don’t know why they would be stealing detergent, but I do know they can see us doing laundry from their yard.”

 “Well,” he said, “it’s only a matter of time before they break into the house. Hire a contractor to build a fence.”

I kept my next purchase of detergent inside and by the time Jazz Fest rolled around, a six-foot fence was protecting our Creole cottage. The occasion coincided with the next-door ne’er-do-wells being evicted. 

Out went the Tide.

Now as Ted and I stood staring at the dormant washer, I realized it had been for naught. 

I punched 9-1-1 into my cell phone. “Hi, I know this isn’t really an emergency, but I want to report that my detergent has been stolen.” 

Not missing a beat, the operator said, “Give my your address and I will send someone out to investigate.”

Murders and muggings are the hallmarks of my drug-addled city. I knew the NOPD had a zillion more pressing problems. So, I was surprised when an hour later I heard knocking, only to open the door to find a cop standing on my front porch. “You reported a theft?” he asked.

“Yes, officer. Someone has stolen my Tide.” 

He stared at me for a second and then turned away, his expression a mixture of disgust and amusement.

“Do you want to file an official report?” he asked, regaining his composure.

“Yes, I do. Someone has come onto my private property three times to steal detergent. Who knows where it could lead?” First it’s Tide, then it’s the corner store, I wanted to say, like detergent was my thief’s equivalent to pot being a junkie’s gateway drug. 

Resigned, he flipped open his pad. “When did you last see your Tide?”

“Thursday,” I replied. “It was about 5pm. I was washing some clothes before Jazz Fest.” 

“What is the value of items that were stolen?” he asked as he scribbled.

“Well, CVS was having a sale on Tide, so I would say around $23.”

“Where did you last see your Tide?”

I marched him through the house to the scene of the crime. 

He peered behind a box of dryer sheets in the closet and then surveyed the backyard.

“Obviously, the fence isn’t stopping this person. Might I suggest you keep your Tide in the house?”

I had that coming. I had been lulled into a false sense of security with the fence up and the neighbors gone. But even if Officer Friendly couldn’t see it, I knew my thief was part of something bigger. I mean, who steals detergent over and over again?

I thanked him as he left and then I got on my laptop and Googled, “Tide theft.” The lead post, which mirrored the others, was entitled “Tide Theft Tied to Drug Trade?” It was a “grime wave,” the reporter coined it, noting that one recent drug sting had netted more Tide than cocaine. Apparently with the laundry detergent going for $10 to $20, it was easy to sell on the black market and junkies were stealing the liquid gold to pay for their fix. 

I had been right about Tide being my thief’s gateway drug, but just not in the way I thought.