Chapters 1-4
CHP. 1 - Thievery, In Retrospect
I, today, for the first time in my short life, have hatched a grandiosely mischievous plan. This is a plan fit for the highest-ranking of cinematic masterpieces, filled with twisting plots and twisted characters alike. It is an ingenuous plan - to rob, to cheat, to steal. All while maintaining the air and morale of a mysterious hero of the community - whether they will know it or not. All I will need is a pair of dark glasses, a theme song - preferably one with the impact of a full piece symphony, yet with the mellow-cool sound of a jazz club groove - and lastly an optional black cape with matching eye-shading mask.
As everyone finds at some point in their life, it seems that some people were just meant to be saints, others Popes, and others, even still, as Gods. After today's events, it is very doubtful that I will stand righteous among these chosen few when Fate has met up with Destiny and my life has come to an end.
But I am not worried about being alone. You see, there are still other people on this twirling mass called Earth. The thief, the criminal, and the common man. Today, I have chosen this way of life. I have traded in my wings and halo for the ragged cloak and mortal crown.
Today, I aspire to become a thief, not only of capital and of merchandise, but of hearts and of minds with a piece of writing, often referred to as a novel. And so, seeming that I am now of scholarly and thief-like aspect, the paper I write on, the very ink by which my words are created must be stolen. And so they are, from a bookstore of all places.
If this book can start at its hopeful end, then why can't all things begin at the place where they will finish? It seems only fitting, so that if the thing should decide that it does not particularly enjoy its fated destination, it would have the knowledge and the motivation, as soon as it entered the world, to take life by the horns and to make its fate its own.
Now that that's over with, I can begin my hopefully wild and entertaining story of epic proportions:
Though I chose my destiny today, the events leading up to this decision began last Sunday, when I met her. When I fell in love. So far into it, that I neither thought it possible, nor wished, to climb my way out of it.
It was not her beauty that pulled me down, though she was in fact quite stunning - with eyes that froze your steps and quickened your heartbeat triple-fold as if, by looking into them, you had set off some sort of beautiful thunderstorm which lashed out and struck you directly at the spot where any ideas of love had been resting, exciting all sorts of ideas, like those you see in movies about an envious couple that has deeply fallen for one another. No, it was not her beauty, but her mellow manner - like my theme song - that captivated me. It was her ability to laugh at everything I laughed at. It was her enjoyment of the things that I enjoyed. It was the feeling somewhere deep down inside of me that I had not yet experienced and that seemed to cheer me on. A feeling like the blazing fire that pushes a hot-air balloon upwards towards the heavens, making a brief detour through my heart. This was love. And I was positive that I loved this girl after having spent only that one short day of my short life with her. And how she loved me on that day. How, if I had been struck down, she would have wailed with Shakespearean passion and fitfully hurled herself tumbling at my side.
But things of this world, especially things as fragile as feelings, are never solid. The earth that we walk on is not even solid, but layer upon layer of built up particles, much like the ideas in movies about love that have built on each other over the years such that they are hardly what could be seen as the normality. It was but days afterward when it seemed that she did not even know my name, which sadly was the long arm that pulled me unwantingly from the depths of love's well.
Being so violently thrown back upon level ground, I lost my balance, and could no longer stand on my own two feet without tumbling to my face. I was not the same man as I had been. I was noticeably missing something - my heart and my passion and my love, which this girl had stolen from me, and continues to keep clasped in the chambers of her heart.
For a few days afterward, I walked the world absentmindedly, empty, and blank. I was like a television screen that had not yet realized its full potential of noise and illumination and simply displayed a dark reflection of its surroundings. That is, until some angel or demon, I know not of which, decided that it was time to watch their evening program and flipped the “on" switch, sending current once again through my body and lighting that proverbial light-bulb of idea.
Today, my life would change. I had seen my ending, and was destined to alter it. I had seen the truth of Saints - that they could never truly be happy. For when they cannot get what they want, the thought to simply drop morality and steal would not ever, not even for a single instant cross their minds. They would rather wallow in self-pity and misery than break a few moral codes to do something that would make them happy.
This is why I wear my dark cape of a sweater and stand, alone among many, in front of a department store with my palms sweating, heart racing, and a sly grin upon my face. Because, in my pockets, there were things of this did not rightfully belong to me. I had taken, along with these wondrous spoils, my first silent and foreboding step into the unknown as a changed man. As a thief.
CHP. 2 - Coffee and Ink
Across the parking lot, not more than fifty feet away, my getaway car was resting, guarded on left and right by metallic beings of the same construction, but with the different and simple purpose of transportation - as opposed to flight from crime. I hopped into the passenger seat and cried "MUSH!", but there were no screeching tires, no lifting of my heart as escape became clear. My so-called getaway car, the stubborn old dog that it was, just muttered and growled at me, refusing to budge.
But no worries. It was not like the movies. There were no flashing lights, no sirens. Just many upon many a passerby, who, like the rest of us, were not the least bit concerned with the goings-on of the insides of another person's car. There were more things to worry about than some weird kid playing cops and robbers.
And so, as I waited for movement, I pulled, from their hideout in my sweater, the items I had heroically freed from captivity. I stared down at them for a while, and for a brief instant, I was struck in the gut by shame and guilt, but only for a brief instant, because in a matter of seconds, the glorious feeling of being these items' liberator had returned. It felt like a time for celebration, so I marched right back into the store, and, for some reason, I actually purchased a drink and a candy bar.
The cashier astonishingly wished me a good evening. If I had been wearing a top hat, then I would have gracefully whipped it off and given the man a deep and courteous bow, and possibly even confessed my misdeeds upon the store to him, but, alas, I wore nothing on my head except my hair. The least I could do was give a sly flash of the pearly whites, and then I left.
My getaway car was more willing to move when I came to it the second time, and it roared its agreement with my excitement as the engine sprung to life and I pulled out of the parking lot like nothing out of the ordinary had just occurred.
Driving down the busy road, I passed a book store, on the inside of which was a small coffee shop. In hopes of finding someone there of whom I could share my grandly accomplished scheme, I decided to go in and have a look around.
As I stepped into the store, an alarm sounded, and I nervously laughed my ass off (probably a little too much) as the small family of three who had stepped in before me explained in a light hearted manner to anyone caring to listen, that the alarms had been sounding off in every store they had gone into that day, the blame of which, they strangely forced upon their young daughter.
There was no one of particular interest at first when I took a brief overview of the place, so I bought a coffee and picked up a book. I then sat down at a table where I could see the store from all angles and began reading. I was quickly bored, however, with whatever sort of crap was in the book that I had picked up, and I tossed it down upon the table.
Looking up, my eyes found a pretty girl that was gazing dreamy-eyed in my direction, who seeing my recognition of the act, put into motion that awkward and quick dart of the eyes and pretended to have been looking at something else all the while.
Amused at this, I kept my eyes on her, waiting for her to look back, and it was obvious that she would. When our eyes did finally meet again, I did not feel that electric pull, which another certain pair of eyes had familiarized me with, but instead I felt in my heart a sort of calm sadness. Only a week now, but I missed her so terribly much.
I picked myself up, and replaced the book back upon its shelf, and - feeling a strange need to write- I began a hunt for pen and paper, though I knew not what would come of it. After splurging my money away on the coffee, I had but four useless dollars on my person - the notebook being a grand total of five dollars. I asked the store clerk if they sold pens, and she replied in the negative, but offered to let me borrow her pen as long as I promised to return it when I was done with it, which seemed reasonable, and I agreed.
When the clerk left me, I liberated the nearest notebook from the shelf and returned to my table in the coffee shop. With both pen and paper now in my very capable hands, I let the ink scar the parchment blue, spilling out my night's story in brief and blotted ideas like these:
“I stole tonight. Strange, I don't feel any regret or any desire to repent. It almost felt like I was in a movie, the way I stealthily made my way around the store. I feel a little like a nutcase. (I probably am.) I don't know what I'm going to do about her, but I probably shouldn't worry myself too much about it, after all, there are many other girls out there, just look around... that girl over there is still staring at me like I'm the fucking Prince of Egypt... I don't really feel like interacting, though, too much caffeine makes me jumpy, but I can't stop her if she decides to throw herself at me..."
It went on like this for a while, and then it broke into a few random short poems that held no meaning. When I felt I had finished my writing for the night, which was shortly after I had started, for sadly, nothing grand had come to mind to put down on paper. So, I closed the notebook, and gave one more quick glance to the girl who sat a sea of chairs away from me, returned the pen to the clerk -like a modern-day Robin Hood - and left with the notebook in hand.
Who knows what could have happened if I had simply forgotten the events of my previous week and crossed the room to talk with the girl across the sea. Maybe I would have found happiness, but I have chosen the path of the thief, and to do such a thing would not be considered stealing, but merely receiving a hand that was offered. I could not let down Old Man Fate, and so I turned my shoulder and left the coast for the concrete mainland of the parking lot and the city.
CHP. 3 - Escape?
On the road again. The black loneliness of the night, cut through by the countless headlights of the oncoming traffic, is beginning to find its place across the sky. This feeling is far from normality in me. I am usually content with the world and with life and especially with the night. I usually find some strange sense of comfort and safety under the veil of paleness produced by the moon and the stars that seem to illuminate my fears and worries, like a detective's black light showing the evidence of a crime. That peaceful light usually helps my thoughts flow into solutions for my problems and troubles.
But these headlights that were flashing by seemed to mock my peace with this light. They seemed to offer no comfort or help in the resolving of problems, but only brief attacks of blindness, which only nullifies the pain of a problem for a moment, rather than allowing one to come to complete terms with it. I was driving myself straight down the path to madness. I could only hope and pray that I would make it to the city in time.
Maybe it was this passionate desire for some sort of escape from the last week's events - or from the world. Maybe it was the aftereffects of crime and of coffee. Regardless, I was slamming the pedal to the medal - as those who can get more cooperation from their cars; such that they fall in love with all such beings, like to say. Faster and faster through this dark night I plummeted towards my only hope of sanity, which resided somewhere within the labyrinth walls of a downtown Utopia - the only place where I could hide long enough to get my thoughts in order; the only place were I could get through this crazy depression, which is so unusual for me.
Sirens begin to mesh with my cacophonous thoughts. I'm too late, I thought. Madness had chased me down and had finally caught me. Lights. Not mocking, like the yellow and red of the passing cars, but ordering for halt and for peace in spastic patterns of blue and white. I slow to a stop and pull over, rubbing away the crazed look that must have been glowing in my eyes.
The walking cliche in a police uniform, mustache and large dark glasses - the bastard, he stole my look - rapped his cold knuckles upon the glass of my window, shattering my thoughts, but not the clear shield that barred him from me. I slid it down and half expected to hear some variation of "Lucy! You've got some splainin' to do," followed by some recorded laughter and the unspoken joy of being able to create mischief and then to be caught and it all being viewed as a massive joke by millions on their television sets for years to come. Instead, I was asked to "Please" produce my license and registration. Once that pointless business was done with, I was asked once again to "Please" step out from my vehicle and walk around with the cliche to my vehicle's rear.
It's all over now. I had been caught in the act of theft. I imagined myself in prison, locked up for all of eternity with no hope of finding her again. This panic must have been showing on my face. "Don't worry son, you're not in too much trouble. The worst you could get for a broken tail light is a trip to death row!"
The cliche laughed at his joke as if it was the funniest thing the world had ever heard. He was so pleased with his sense of humor that he even gave me a playful punch on the shoulder, which really hurt a lot. Still smiling, he let me off with a warning and told me to get the light fixed as soon as possible or else he would have to "personally find and beat the tar out of me." He laughed like a hyena again and threw another wary punch my way, which I thankfully managed to dodge. Then, he got into his patrol car and pulled out onto the road, offering a quick blip of the siren as a well-humored farewell - the crazy bastard.
Had I not been speeding? I looked up and found my answer in a long and slow-moving line of traffic that dotted the pathways of the interstate in both directions. I couldn't have been speeding without it resulting in a 52-car pile-up that no amount of overly hyper kids could have even hoped to clean up in the brief time of my interaction with the officer.
I was worse off than I thought. Much worse. I closed my eyes and turned on the radio, which I thought would help to calm and take my mind off of things, and was greeted by the scruffy voice of the local rock station's DJ, who was giving the details on a show, starring some unknown band, which was just about to begin in the city.
I pulled onto the road, having decided to go to where the loud music and excited crowd could hopefully pump some much needed energy and life into my tired mind and body. It was most likely, however, a decision to help me forget - to see some fresh faces that could take me away from the dull sameness of my friends and family. Not to forget them completely, I would never want that. I just needed a break.
I took the next exit into the city and I felt the strange sense of a burden being taken off of my shoulders and sat up straight with a new light in my eye. Not of madness, but of passion and excitement, that seemed to come from nothing more than the fact that I was given life and I was finally starting to live it.
My depression had vanished. I wasn't sure of how, but I didn't stop to think about it. I just kept on driving, finding a safe-haven within the city's limits. The music could be heard from blocks away. I loved it, and I stepped into the crowd of the concert with the noble stride of a king walking into a crowd of his people and, seeing the goodness of it, thrown all sorts of wealth and treasures to the outstretched hands. I cast away my cloak and mask to the throbbing crowd and became just another innocent person thrashing to the rhythm of a band that we had never heard of. It felt great.
CHP. 4 - There's Something About the Present
Twenty-Four years old now. Seven year's have passed since that fateful night. High school and college are things of the past, and the broad horizons of a major business corporation have been opened to my eyes. Right off the bat, I was offered a high paying job that is fairly entertaining and simple - but not simple enough to drown me in the dull pool of sameness of action day in and day out. Life has been going well, but, every now and then I feel a pit opening up in my stomach as if some void had not been filled, as if, in taking my leap of faith, I had forgotten that there was something needed that was a bit more than blind faith, something like knowledge, in order to land unharmed upon solid ground. And yet, I have never been able to figure out what exactly was creating that pit, which was not quite wide enough to cry into and receive an echoing answer to its mysteries.
If you wonder about the greater importance of this day as to the many others that surely must have passed in the last seven years - the reason I chose to sit and think on this day - than you must first hear a few significant facts that have occurred during the space of time that has passed, but is better told at a reflective stance rather than an ongoing narrative.
After that first night of theft, I deemed my actions as having been irrational and as a brief sort of mental break that caused me to find peace in creating an odd scene about myself, and resolved to never let myself sink to that point of depression again. So, in attempts to quell future attacks from my unconscious, I had decided to never commit the act of thievery again, and I have not - as far as the material standpoint goes - up to this day. But still, you wonder the significance of this day, so I will go on to explain what it was that occurred as I was on my way to the office building this morning, briefcase in one hand, coffee in the other.
Following the footsteps that I had left on my travels back and forth from my place of business on the day before and the day before that etc., I ran into something out of the ordinary, or rather someone. It was a woman, somewhat dirty, yet physically attractive in an odd way, but obviously insane - screaming nonsense at an invisible crowd and laughing maniacally as if she was the Wicked Witch herself. As I passed, she broke her tremendous street act for the shortest instance of a second which she used to whisper, sanely and casually, into my passing ear, "I know what you've done. Meet me... “I had passed and she continued on with the jesters of a mad woman.
In the office today, I could not concentrate on my work. I kept trying to think of what it was that I had done, and of who the woman could have been to tell me of it. At first I pushed it aside as anyone would have done with the taunts of a mentally ill person, but something about the tone of her voice in which she said those words, cool and calm and almost soothing as if to say, "I know what you've done, but it is ok," led me on a wild goose chase in my mind seeking my crime against her.
All I could think of as a possibility was the occasional pencil or spitball I had thrown to the waiting grasp of the office ceiling. Was this woman one of the office custodian workers? No, that was silly of me, but I could not figure out what I had done, until I went to the trash can to toss some papers and saw the coffee cup. A rush of memory came into my mind about that night. I collapsed in the chair. I had not thought of that night for a long time. I had not thought of the feelings, such as the loss of love that had produced such actions on that night, and it was really quite a lot to handle all at once.
I took an early leave and was on my way home when a hand grabbed the breast of my suit and pulled me into an alleyway out of sight. With such strength used to get me there, I was surprised to be staring into the face of the woman with her finger pressed against her lips as a warning of silence. When I had calmed somewhat, she whispered, "Do you know what you've done?" Still puzzled by the meaning of the question and not sure if I had recalled the correct answer, I replied with a "Yes." and seeming very pleased and happy she threw her arms around me, as I stood with a clear expression of shock and surprise on my face. "Follow me, there is something I think you should see, and someone you should meet."