The Value of a Stolen Item

 

I was listening to an account of historical value, maybe not anything earth shattering; but it struck a nerve.  The story had to do with an old guitar that had been hanging in a Brooklyn, New York, pawn shop’s window.  A fellow passing by happened to recognize it as a guitar that had been stolen from him nine years earlier when he and his band, Kiss, were at a gig in Chicago. The fellow’s name, Ace Frehley who was a big-time rocker, recognized his own stolen guitar hanging in a pawn shop window.   (image of Kiss courtesy of Wallpaper dot com)

Long story short, he was able to convince the pawn shop owner to return the guitar, pointing out the various customized alterations he’d made, the inlaid Ace on the guitar’s neck and the engraved letters “AF” on the back of the guitar’s neck.  If that weren’t enough, he showed the shop owner his driver’s license.  He really was who he said he was, the rock star from Kiss.

The guitar was in pretty bad shape but the point of the story had to do with how many memories that item held for the owner, the hours he’d spent carving out places for the electronic inserts, the tunes he’d created using that instrument, places he’d played using it and so on.  The guitar meant so much more in memories than it could ever have in monetary terms.

That brings me to the first Smith and Wesson duty pistol I had to purchase prior to graduating from the Houston Police Academy back in 1972.  Having acquired the necessary training and nearing the end of that training, I was surprised to find the Department didn’t furnish officers with a duty weapon, that officers purchased those weapons.  A representative from one of the local firearm sellers was on hand to accommodate each of us, offering these pistols at a substantially reduced price. If memory serves, I paid just over a hundred dollars for a Smith and Wesson Model 19, 357 blue steel revolver and a tad less for a Smith and Wesson Model 36, off duty snub-nosed pistol.

I should mention that at that time two hundred dollars was a huge amount of money and it put a large dent in my financial budget.  Upon graduation and wearing the uniform I found that having a large piece of blue steel strapped to my hip left bruises, another item I’d not figured on.  The Department had minimum height and weight requirements; at a hundred and forty pounds I was half a pound over that minimum.  I’d eat an entire pie or a banana split prior to going to bed to keep from losing weight.  During the day I’d eat an extra sandwich between meals, never gaining weight; just doing what I could to maintain my hundred and forty pounds. 

You may have noticed, I no longer have to worry about that minimum weight requirement.

Eventually I got used to wearing the pistol and the bruise it caused during months learning the duties of a patrol officer were being learned.  After a couple of years, I forgot all about, well mostly forgot about how awkward it was becoming a police officer.  I felt more comfortable, confident in my abilities as I found directing traffic during evening rush hour was where I fit in best.

I’m wandering a bit.  My financial abilities had risen from ‘abject poverty’ to being able to breathe, purchase a second duty pistol, a neat-looking Colt Commander, chrome 45 cal.  Another officer needed cash and so I picked it up at a reasonable price.  The only reason I mention this had to do with a burglary that took place some years later at my home.  While pulling into my driveway, the burglars were exiting my house out the back window of my daughter’s bedroom.

On the floor of the hallway leading to that bedroom were a couple of my rifles, most of my Sam Brown belt and some other insignificant personal items; the back window was wide open.  I’d missed walking in on them by mere seconds.  Unfortunately, they’d made off with my Smith and Wesson Model 19, the one that had been personalized with a Butt Plate from Nelson Silvia with my name and badge number, gold on silver.  The Butt Plate was a piece of jewelry, call it what you will, attached to my favorite pistol.

I made a police report, letting the officer know that even though I couldn’t prove it, I suspected the turds who lived on the street behind our house.  The neighborhood was a mix of middle-class working stiffs and hoodlums waiting for the working stiffs to leave for work. My insurance company settled, I think they paid me exactly a hundred dollars for the stolen pistol.

Several years went by when out of the blue I got a call from the Harris County Sheriff’s Office asking if I’d made a report of a stolen Smith and Wesson Blue Steel Model 19 pistol.  I told them that I had, that a police report had been filed and asked why they were asking.  It turned out a member of the Sheriff’s Department was at their pistol range attempting to qualify using that pistol.  When they entered the serial number stamped on the pistol, it came up as stolen with my name as the original owner. 

I won’t go into how dumb it sounded that a Sherriff’s Deputy ended up with my stolen pistol or that he didn’t notice that there had been a Butt Plate on it at one time, something which should have alerted him that it probably had been owned by a police officer, those little screw holes in the butt of the pistol.  Never mind, all that; “Would you like to have your pistol back?”

I explained that my insurance company had settled with me and that technically the insurance company was the rightful owner now.  I then contacted my insurance company, explained the recent findings and they said I could keep the pistol.  I think I paid them back a hundred dollars, maybe not.

I’d long since replaced the Smith and Wesson Model 19 with a Smith and Wesson Model 586, blue steel 357.  It was a nicer pistol, a bit heavier and it had become my favorite duty weapon.  It was nice being able to show up for work wearing either of my two favorite side arms, either the Smith and Wesson Model 586 for a while or the Colt Commander.  I had a rig for both and the City didn’t seem to mind that I’d used the Supply Department to accommodate these pistols.

While working night shift in the Spring Branch area, I’d often enjoyed the company of a young security guard working towards becoming an armed security guard.  He’d taken the training and passed all the requirements.  All he needed was a reliable duty weapon.  I sold him my old Smith and Wesson Model 19 for exactly a hundred dollars.  He was ecstatic since the going price for such a find was much higher at the time. 

What has this got to do with Ace Frehley and the pawn shop guitar? 

The value placed on objects has little to do with their financial worth.  The value has to do with the memories these items hold, how these memories came to be and at what cost, not in dollars; but in personal growth.