What comes around, goes around

I was with a group of friends not too long ago, and we were exchanging stories about times in our lives when somebody had stolen something from us.

Seems sad, but almost everybody you talk to these days will have at least one tale about a day when they came home only to find their house had been broken into. Or, left the store only to discover that their car missing or a window is smashed and the contents are gone. If you’re one of those people, then you understand the feeling of helplessness, depression and anger that one goes through when you’ve been robbed.

I’ve had this happen a few times. As recently as last Christmas, my oldest son, AJ, came home from Palmer High upset because somebody had gone through his Mitsubishi and taken his iPod, charger, holder and a few other items. (If you’re out there and you’re reading this, pal — Merry Christmas from the Compton family.)

Perhaps I’ve just had enough, or maybe I’m just getting crusty in my old age. In any case, it wasn’t that long ago that I had people scratching their heads thinking maybe I’d lost my marbles. Somebody stole from me, and dang it, I just couldn’t shrug it off. I just had to do something.

It was a busy, beautiful sunny day. I had just filled my two gas cans and was running a few errands before it was time to head home. At what was supposed to be my last stop I parked my rig right in front of the doors, in plain sight of all the coming and going customers, and strolled in to grab a few items. I couldn’t have been in the store for more than five minutes, 10 tops. And yes, you guessed it; I walked back out and immediately noticed my two red gas cans were missing.

Now, I’m not a total fool. I had thought about it briefly when I had parked and I thought that somebody would have to be awfully brave to grab my gas right out of the back, in broad daylight, on a busy weekend day and in a high-traffic area where they were bound to be seen. I guess somebody was indeed that brave, or foolish. In any case they succeeded. They had more than $50 of my gas and I was standing there in a parking lot shaking my fist at nobody and everybody.

But what was the solution? Call the police? See if they can put out a dragnet throughout the city and find my gas cans? “You’ll know they’re mine, officer, because they’re red.”

No, I don’t think so. This particular store didn’t have cameras on the parking lot so I was out of luck there. That’s when I snapped. That was the moment that began the whole episode where some of my buddies figured ole Ben was going a little over the top. Instead of hopping in the truck and heading home, I walked back into the store and purchased gas cans. Lots of them. A nice, pretty row of brand new red gas cans. I also bought a black marker. With my new items in hand, I whipped out my little arts and crafts project in a matter of minutes.

A few cans were marked with “ATV/Car,” a few others were “Diesel.” On one can I wrote “Chainsaw.” With all my cans thus labeled, I bungeed them all back together, loaded them into the truck and headed back to the gas station. Was I a glutton for punishment? Was I now going to spend a few hundred dollars for fuel in some mad quest to tempt fate?

Nope, I actually spent very little. You see, I only put a teeny bit of fuel in each can. Less than a gallon, actually. I only put enough in to generate that whiff of fuel you get when you open the can. Oh, and that was after I had filled each can up with a nice salt-water/sugar/sand mixture.

I drove around Wasilla for days like that. It didn’t take weeks. It only took a few days until bingo! I came out of a restaurant to find my bungee cords flopping off the side of the truck and all my cans were gone.

So, if you know anybody who recently experienced some major mechanical problems with their car or truck, or maybe their ATV, boat, chainsaw, lawn mower and/or weed-whacker, ask them what happened. Did they get some “bad gas” somewhere? Or maybe you, the person who lifted all my cans, are reading this article right now. If so, here’s a big smile and a wave from Ben Compton! Call me Mr. Karma.

Ben Compton is a Palmer resident and publishes his column as “Compton’s Corner,” the same title used by his grandmother, Phyllis Compton, a longtime Frontiersman columnist.