My Writer's Cramp Pieces

The Burglary

He arrived home to find the door ajar. He knew something was wrong...



Writer's Cramp: something's missing in your house

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The Burglary

         I came in from the doctor’s after getting my cast off and discovered that the front door was ajar. Now sometimes, ajar is good – if it’s peanut butter when you’re hungry, or the lid half-open on pickles, even an outer wrapping of a loaf of bread, but for a door of a house to be open when you DIDN’T open it, well, that’s one of the worst things imaginable.

         Now, if my wife had been around, I probably would have gone to the neighbor’s house and called the cops, but Betty was still at work, and darn it, I was hungry. So, I crept up to that door with my briefcase at chin height in case I needed to bop someone -- tip-toeing like a ballerina. I listened. The silence felt unnatural. There should have been sounds of someone breaking things or shoveling all my valuables into a big Santa bag, but I couldn’t hear a thing. I pushed at the door. CREAK! Wouldn’t you know the darn thing would take that moment to remind me about oiling the hinges?

         I froze, but my legs started trembling so bad you’d have thought I lived in California. I did some heavy thinking about jogging back to my car, but I was still hungry, and I knew where Betty’s leftover chicken legs were hidden in our refrigerator. No burglar was going to keep me away from them, dog gone it!

         I took a chance and pushed at the door again. I pushed too hard, and the darn thing almost slammed against the wall. I looked behind me as if I thought someone had come up and pushed from back there, but of course, it was only me being more of a fool than before.

         Still no sound of a burglar. I reached down and untied my shoes, holding onto the briefcase, still prepared to wallop the guy.

         No one came. I took off the shoes, slipped them onto the shoe rack by the door, and stepped inside. My socks, slightly wet with the sweat of the moment, made a squishy sound on the flooring. I couldn’t help that unless I was to fly. I proceeded on.

         The living room was to my right. I darted a glance in. The room looked okay. TV was still there, stereo seemed fine, chairs, table, sofa. The old grandfather clock was still chipping away at the seconds. I glanced at my desk. The papers looked different than I’d left them. Hadn’t I placed my checkbook on top? It was gone! Darn! What a stupid thing to leave out. Some guy probably had my bank account number, my phone number, my address -- Of course, he had my address, I whispered to myself, slamming a hand silently against my forehead; he was here at the house, wasn’t he? He already knew where I lived. Duh!

         I turned around toward the master bedroom. Had the burglar invaded the space of our personal area? The thought sickened me. What if he’d slept in our bed, ruffled through our clothes, our private things? Had he found the wad of cash I kept in my sock drawer?

         I passed through the hall almost not caring if I met a burglar. I was ready for him, briefcase in hand, fired up and ready to let the invader have it, right in the mouth.

         No burglar, but things looked different. The bed was made for one thing. Had it been like that this morning? Duh, like a burglar is going to make a bed. Once more I hit my forehead, amazed at my stupid thoughts. Must be in shock, I decided.

         I peeked into the sock drawer where the Santa socks my daughter had given me were nestled next to the other black ones. My wad was still inside. I sighed and wiped the sweat off my brow. Things were looking up.

         I checked the bathroom, the kids’ rooms. Everything looked okay. No burglar. No sounds of someone going through my stuff. The guy had apparently already come and gone, taken my checkbook, and left with what he wanted.

         I made my way to the kitchen, feeling pretty relieved that I’d survived, and only then realizing how stupid I’d been to come inside when I’d expected to find a burglary. My shoes were off, I was walking softly on the carpet so no one could have heard me round the corner. No one did, until I flipped on the light, like I always do, even though it’s bright as day in the kitchen with the sun shining through the big glass window.

         The light switch is the old kind, the kind that makes a little click when you snap it up. The noise scared the person sitting at the table. She screamed.

         “What are you doing home?” she cried out, bolting up with the evidence of theft in her hand.

         My eyes were staring at the uneaten chicken leg she was waving around. I didn’t answer. I was counting the bones lying on her plate.

         “You scared me,” she said, wiping her hands on a napkin and placing that last chicken leg back down.

         I made a grab and got it before she realized my intention.

         There’d been a burglary at my house, all right, and my wife almost got away with it.

890 words