Life of a Thief - CHapter One

    Chapter One











-If I could do it all again, I would have said no to the cowboy boots.











I was a weird child. By many standards. My comparisons in life have always been; one, my mother, two, other kids, and three, my mother’s many boyfriends. All of which gave me the impression either verbally or through some sort of hypnotic osmosis that I was a weird child. I knew this and I was fine with it. At least, at the time I was fine with it, now I look back and say “ouch”, I was one weird kid. Funny enough, I grew up to be a weird guy too. Go figure.

So life started out for me as many children in this age have done and many before them. My parents were divorced at an early age for whatever reasons people get divorced after having two children together. My father stayed put with my sister and my mother took me and fled. I don’t rightly recall what we were running from, if anything, but I do get the distinct impression we were running from something.  Maybe Dad, maybe the government, maybe the 60's which wanted Mom to return her haircut. I don’t know and I doubt I’ll ever know. The fact remains that we traveled around the country for pretty much no reason. Although I did realize that every new place we lived also seemed to come with a new boyfriend for Mom. Kinda like carpeting. We would live at one house or apartment or hotel room or car or trailer until it was time to move on. We never knew when that time would be, but like some fortune telling talent that is passed on through the family we knew that there would be a sign. Like shattered front doors, bullet holes in our house or car, men with knives, men with habits, men with insanity issues, men with suicidal tendencies, or just plain bad men. But there were good signs too. Like promises, hopes, new lives in new places, bigger homes, more clothes, safety, and the general fuzzy feeling of taking a risk that just might make it all right. Either way, the signs came and went and we came and went. We had each other and the world was our enemy or our mountain that just kept getting bigger whenever we tried to climb it. But we had each other and that seemed to be all that really mattered.

I would spend summers with my father and my best friend in the world, my sister.



She’ll be mentioned many times I’m sure but I’d like to just say this before we go any further. I was lonely most of my childhood. Friends were rare and life with Mom was hard to take sometimes. I cried a lot as a child and detachment was my only protection. I felt happy and at peace when I was with my sister. She loved me more than anyone and she protected me from permanent detachment. I looked up to her, I needed her. She was also going through a hard time being a teenager and everything that comes with it, plus Dad wasn’t around much I think. So it felt like we might have been the only sane people watching all the insanity around us fly by. As long as we held hands nothing could grab us into the mess. Some siblings are born twins at birth, we were never separated. I think we share the same soul. No, I know we do.

Back to where I was, summers in the big city. One of the things I want to keep fresh in my mind is the awestruck giddiness in me every time I would enter a big city or Denver in specific. Even more than the Big Apple itself, the feeling that I would get as a child when I drove into the Mile High city was incredible. It was like a fresh day, a road that finally took a bend after hours and hours of straight and dark. Finally, something to see, to touch, to awaken your eyes again. If I could find someway to keep that emotion inside every day and every activity, I think I could stay young forever. Until then I use one part memory and two parts imagination to keep it alive.

These summers and the stories within are going to be brief. It’s funny. We are human beings. We have certain stigmas and preconceived notions that for the most part are true. You might hate NASCAR but I guarantee you will stop the flippin if there’s a mean wreck on the track. Don’t lie. Deep down we all know that reality T.V. should not by any means exist except in the most primitive and uncultured societies of third world countries. But yet it does. Why? Because we friggin watch it, that’s why. We watch, and we cringe, and we think to ourselves that this just isn’t right. That it’s the most demeaning and pathetic attempt at entertainment and who the hell watches this stuff. That’s what we think as we watch. Fuck it. Admit it, we’re all sick bastards. So I’ll be skipping the summers of my life, why, because they are too good. Pain equals entertainment. Pain is the only mirror that shows us how much we are alike to everyone else. It’s our beacon of hope to all humanity. Connecting us like flies on a pile of cow shit, or a whole grove of aspen trees changing colors overnight. I leave it up to you to pick which picture rings true.

I have one distinct memory of Denver. It’s very early. Before the internet, after dinosaurs. Me and my sister were periodically left at a sort of day care/nursery house. It was run by a women/crazy-witch-lady named Hazel. Thus being Hazel’s house. Or by some of the more rebellious of the three to twelve years olds like to call it, Hazel’s House of Horrors. I hated it, oh so much. I did get to watch “The Dukes of Hazard” whenever “Dallas” wasn’t on though, so hey, thank God for small favors. Although Tom Waits said, “The devil built the world while God was sleeping.” So, hey God thanks for the nap.



One particular afternoon in the back yard of Hazel’s House I sat with two of my fellow five year old inmates. We were doing what kids do, drooling, smelling bad, and maybe breaking something when I just got fed up with the whole deal. I mean seriously, here I am like five years old, practically a man and I have to sit with these two babies in the back yard of some lady who I don’t even know. Jesus, I says, I’ve had it. I’m gonna go ahead and leave now. I invited my two playmates and even tried to talk them into it I think, I was always a very manipulative and persuasive child. Right after I was born I think I talked the doctor into letting the nurse give me the backrubs. I have no proof of this, call it instinct. As persuasive as I can be these two little rug rats wouldn’t budge. So fine, fuck you then. I’m leaving. I got up, went to the back gate, opened it, and took off down the alley. I have no idea how far I ran, it felt like at least two blocks but it could have been next door, perception is skewed at that age. I found a gate open down the street and ran into someone’s back yard. Unfortunately I ran into the one with people in it. Well, I was determined and at this point I had nothing to lose so I went to the nearest hiding spot I could see. The doghouse. So here’s this kid, all crazy eyed, running into your backyard, he looks around, probably chokes down a scream then jumps into your doghouse. Or the dog’s doghouse, they’re territorial you know. What would you think? Would you help the kid, maybe ask him what the beegeebies he’s doing in your, sorry, your dog’s house? Well, they didn’t do any of that. In fact they didn’t even have the courtesy to say hello until Hazel came through their gate. Oh, they said hi and nice day and all that to her, sure. If they only knew what they just let in their yard, let me tell you. Well, of all the times to finally acknowledge me it was in pointing a finger into the doghouse and ratting me out. Fine world we live in. So, I’m caught. Hazel/freaky-alien-hag grabs me by the ear and drags me the whole way back to the next house over. With a fine howdy-do hoorah bon voyage type farewell from the communist neighbors. I didn’t wave back. The rest of the night went on as usual except that I had to stand most of it as for the pain in my ass was too great to sit. See, spanking and all around general abuse was fine and dandy back then, even preferred. All in all I learned a very important lesson that I carry with me everyday. Absolutely never ever expect help from any backyard lovin doghouse owning communist bastards who know anyone named Hazel. You know what; I never saw a dog in that yard either. Makes you wonder.

That was the very first time that I ever broke a rule. At least a good one. That one moment felt so damned good that I continued to break more rules ever since. It was like rules were there just for me. I had found my calling, and it had found me.







So my life of sin had begun. Woohoo. Coming back to the awkward stage of puberty again, ya like I wanted to okay, brings me to the next evil and heinous act of my delinquent self. It involved a Circle K. For those of you who are from the Czech Republic that similar to a gas station with slurpees. I was supposed to be on the lookout while my friend stole some cigars for us to gag and choke on later that day. I played a video game and he, on my command, would grab the cigars and deposit them into his shorts. I still remember the game, R-Type. Yes, I’m a geek. So the time came, I gave the signal, and he shoved some swishers into his still hairless nether regions. Everything seemed fine until he reached the door and the clerk who we later found out was an ex marine, grabbed my buddy by the collar and took him behind the counter into some child made interrogation room. The Semper Fi then came back out and asked me if I was involved and whether I knew the kid, and whether I was a punk thief too, I don’t know, whatever. I stared blankly for approximately 3/4 of a millisecond and replied, “Nope.”, and promptly walked out. I suppose I should feel bad for leaving my friend stranded in some god awful cell with an ex marine, but I don’t. The funny thing was that after all was said and done and my friend’s Mom picked him up and was grounded and all that, he still had the swishers in his pocket. Talk about dedication.

The second act in my twelve step program of debauchery involved a bar and some rope. Where we got the balls to do this I have no idea, well I do now but at the time who would have thought. There was an old closed down Mexican food restaurant and bar right next to my house. It stood in the parking lot of a hotel and looked straight into the main street of town. We decided to break into this bar and see if there was any beer left inside, funny ‘cause none of us drank beer at the time. Seeing as how we were too stupid or too new at the whole game, we decided to do this in the middle of the day. We didn’t want to miss cartoons in the morning and god forbid we miss Saturday Night Live, so two o’clock sounded just right. Supplies were gathered and off we went. One of the smarter boys in the group made the genius decision of going onto the roof and into one of the skylights. So up we went and a prying we went. I was the smallest, of course, so I was voted the one to go in first. I dropped down and through some sort of boyish adrenaline haze found the bar and the beer and started loading the bottles up in large white construction buckets. After all the beer was taken out I was pulled up through the skylight last, in the girl’s bathroom no less, and away we went. All this was done in the afternoon of a nice blue day between at least fifty open hotel windows and the good old 7-Eleven we had previously plundered for a pack of smokes.. Oddly enough no one saw us, or no one cared which is more likely. Seriously, ask yourself, would you suspect four nine year olds of stealing buckets of old Mexican beer out of a bar that sat out on an open lot with zero cover and a two street intersection? I don’t think so.

Speaking of, I learned over the years a thing or two about stealing. In fact I was really good at it. My signature technique if you will was doing it to their face, no stuffing, no strategic maneuvers or dressing rooms, just right out there in my hand as I walk straight by. It never fails. Plus it gives you an out. It’s a little hard to say, “Oops, I accidentally dropped that CD into my pants, I swear to God,” with any believability. However, playing a little retarded and spaced out will cover any open hand technique. They can’t prove it was intentional, it’s a no win situation for them. When you get comfortable with that you can then progress to planned out actions, some subterfuge, and a little manipulation. I once stole a huge video game CD-ROM, the first of its kind, and as big as the cart I pushed it in, from one of those huge department type stores. I planned ahead a little bit first, I planned on stealing it, and then, well, that’s about all I planned. I went into the hardware section of this super mart suburban nightmare kinda place, which later went bankrupt, and stole some markers. Then I went over to stationary and grabbed some sticky notes. Good ole sticky notes. The wonder of the eighties. I then proceeded to my target destination in electronics. I grabbed the new toy, told the electronics Nazi I was doing more shopping and headed out to the front lines. On my way up I whipped out the marker and a little yellow sticky note and did some of the best writing I’ve ever done. I wrote SOLD in big black letters and stuck it right on top. Whence I arrived at the front I spied out all the 562 different cattle gates, or what they call ‘checkout lines’ I think as some sort of a ploy, and went straight to the last one. Number 561 if I remember right. They use 562 to train new employees as most sweat shop warehouses like this do. I figure the second to last is where they stuck the new girl. Hmm, yep I was right. So up I go wheeling my new toy around like it’s already mine. Without stopping I say, “Hey, this is already paid in electronics,” she spies the note; I’m already half way out the door.

 



Quit distracting me. So now I know you are all dying to hear what we were gonna do with all that friggin beer? None of us drank beer, hell we couldn’t even figure out how to open the bottles! So naturally, as all such things go, we thought of selling it at school where other children our age would jump at the chance to not open a bottle of beer. At school the next day things did not go as planned. At that particular age you don’t even have money for lunch. You get lunch tickets in the morning or whatever, but you definitely don’t have a ten spot in your wallet. We couldn’t just give it away either so we kept it. Hell, we thought, we’ll drink this up no problem. As me and my best friend slash accomplice are walking home from school we decide to pop open a beer for refreshment. How hard can opening a bottle be for Christ’s sake. Believe you me it’s a little tricky with pencils and a book for tools. At one point I gave up and used a rock to smash open the top of one of the bottles resulting in a giant scar on my thumb that I still look at to this day and cringe.



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Let’s talk about girls for a moment. It’s now about that time in life when the boy becomes interested in the girl. Well, let’s be more specific.

Now is about the time when a boy realizes that an actual naked girl would be a lot more fun than an imaginary one. It’s at this point that the boy will start to day daydream various concoctions of bravery, heroism, machoism, daredevilism, sportsmanism, and general “lets get the job doneism” in any way we can. The world becomes almost instantly about how to attract, no, capture girls for even a brief moment. Or a moment of brief, briefs. Nothing will ever compare in sheer thrill the first kiss, the first roll around under a blanket, the slight accidental touch of cheek. That innocence is truly the wonder of the world, the ultimate glory road for treasure seekers. I would love to bottle that somehow. Make a million.

So here I am already a hoodlum, already on my way to Satan’s helper, one who has achieved great things in the childhood scheme of things. Should be a piece of cake to get the chickies you would think. Hmmm. Too bad I was poor had a bad spiked haircut that I kept getting for years (I don’t know why), I was deathly if not mortally shy, and I was too smart for my own good. Smarts in school is like a limping lion in the jungle. Might as well paint a big target on my back saying kick my intellectual ass. I had one thing going for me though, I was cute. Nice eyes specifically. One can go a long way in this world with a nice pair of lenses. They transcend both sexes I think, male, female, gay, straight, perverted, redneck, dominatrix all the major turn on and offs are all dominated by the eyes. Even a nice tight backend or what have you cannot compare to the windows of a soul. Some windows are dirty and musty some are clear and bright. The most open and translucent gateway to a person’s soul is the biggest turn on there is. Deep down inside we’re all lonely and tired of seeing only one perspective, only one character in the movie. Sometimes we just want to know what it feels like to be someone else, and a kiss with eyes open, staring deep into a clear view of another character is divine. That coupled with the beformentioned young lust is a wonderful thing.

Okay, so I might be talking up my eyes a bit, but hey, it’s all I got to work with here. For the record, who’s or what record I’ve never actually found out but apparently there is one out there somewhere, my first girlfriend was in third grade. Although we never actually hung out together we shared Cabbage Patch dolls, which at the time was a big deal. Her name was Brandy and she had red curly hair and red freckles. Or maybe that was her Cabbage Patch doll, either way it was hot.

I was now on the lookout for a more truthful and meaningful relationship, someone I could share lunch hours with or share a snuggle under the playground bush or maybe even someone to cheer me on when I didn’t play any sports that I liked to not play. First things first, I needed to be attractive, sans eyes. Luckily for me my sister happened to be staying with us in our little tiny miniscule one bedroom trailer behind the town dive bar. She also happened to be a little more hip than me, by like a light year. I told her my problem and she fixed me right up with a various mixture of clothes I owned and a couple of throwbacks form her own stash. What we essentially came up with was about three outfits. All using the same black vest and puffy black pants. I later expanded this with more but for now it was a start. She also taught me a little trick with black eyeliner making it seem almost nonexistent but somehow expounding my eye attracting capability. My crappy dry almost marine-like spiky haircut became a rather fetching punk do with a little help from hair gel. This was amazing stuff to me back then, let this be a lesson to you all you take-for-granters, everything is a small miracle if it is needed at the time. The level of need is irrelevant. Oh, I almost forgot the pointy black ankle high boots she was so kind as to give me. They made the whole thing really.  Now if only they would have had contact lenses, I could have rid myself of the four year old ginormous metal glasses that were taped on the side, I shit you not.

The whole look was straight out of the eighties and reeked of euro-fag hipster design straight out of some album cover of Duran Duran. But it worked. I was scared shitless the first day of class with my new digs and I honestly don’t know how I made it considering my fear of contact but I did and I was the hit of the yard. Man, the girls we’re actually ALL coming over to sit around me during lunch, the boys all pushed me around and made fun of me, and I must have got caught with at least five or six secret notes in class. All in all a very successful evolvement. From then on I was invited to parties at the popular, or beautiful, girl’s houses, I was in with skater popular boys, and I got a girlfriend. All of this because of my sister’s fashion sense. Kids are a micro analysis of society on a whole. They are the true quintessential mirror that we should all learn from. Fuck the innocence and cuteness and all that. Watch how strikingly barbaric they take our society’s habits. Buying, generalizing, moralizing, hating, fearing, separating, all the things that as adults we ignore and pretend are okay. But how can I, a nerd and outcast, become instantly popular only because of a change in clothes? Maybe it because my inside changed as well, maybe I became more confident in myself and the other kids fed off that. Maybe. Oh but I doubt it.

Point is, now I was liked. For about a month.

After that the future ladies of America started to see the pattern in my clothing. Vest, black, pants, pointy shoes, spiky hair. I couldn’t afford new clothes and my sister had by now moved on to better things, in better places. My former fashion frenzy was now sort of a joke, when before they asked me if I was going to the dance, now they asked me if it was the same vest I wore everyday. I actually had two vests so there. Now that I think about this I collected for years after that and I think I actually made one in Home Ec Freshman year. That’s in a later chapter though.