Felonious

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Literary Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
A look at the downward spiral of an addict.

Submitted: April 02, 2012

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Submitted: April 02, 2012

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Felonious

By

Jerad Grossaint


 


 


 


 


 


 


 


 


 


 


 


 


 


 


 

Well this is different and kind of exciting, I think to myself as I squeeze and wiggle my rotund frame into the empty space that use to be a car window; I mean I am a big guy and this kind of physical activity isn’t typical of someone with my physique. The part of me that thinks this kind of thing is a bad idea has slowly gotten quieter and quieter the longer I go without sleep. It’s been 7 days now, seven days of crystal meth fueled criminal behavior.

“I’m in.” I say in a whisper to Muffin. Muffin is a Portland Street Kid, and has been living on the streets since he was a teenager. He earned his street name at the age of 13 when he stole a Hostess delivery truck. I barely know Muffin; he wasn’t so much a friend as he was an acquaintance. In the world of drugs there aren’t many people you want to call actual friends.

Shut up Ronnie.” Muffin whispers, he is well aware of where I am because he was the one that had just broken the window I squeezed through. I knew Muffin has been doing shit like this for years; breaking into cars, stealing valuable items and then trying to fence them for money or trading them straight across for drugs. This isn’t the only thing Muffin has done, at the age of 25 he has already served 3 years at Oregon State Penitentiary for Theft and Assault, and I assume has been to countless juvenile facilities; long story short Muffin is a serious-no-shit felon. I am new to this game. At the age of 21 I have never even seen the backseat of a police car.

As I search through the back seat of this 1998 Toyota Corolla looking for anything of value, I think of how I got here; high on meth learning pointers on how to properly commit a felony, although technically I think it’s a property crime. Hey what do I know, I’m not a lawyer? The point is I didn’t always act like this. At one point I was an over-privileged kid with too much time and boredom on his hands. Boredom is a disease worse than cancer and I have found that drugs are the cure. The problem with drugs is you start small with a little weed to cure your boredom and soon the high from the weed just isn’t enough and then BAM! Next thing you know you’re in the big leagues doing bad things to pay for your new meth habit.

This car is small. Most Japanese imports are. I may be big but I am still able to get from seat to seat searching for a misplaced wallet, an ipod, pocket change; anything to make the risk I am taking pay off. More importantly I want it to pay for more drugs and maybe some cigarettes. It’s been a while since I had my own pack of cigarettes. I hop into the passenger seat and start rifling through the glove box. Registration, insurance, ice scraper, pen, replacement light bulbs for the car, but there is nothing of any value. I open the passenger side door and hop out of the car.

Muffin nods toward another car down the street, keeping things simple and quiet. Although we may be drug addled thieves we try to be smart about some things. It is 3:30 in the morning, people are sleeping. It’s hard enough to keep quiet busting out car windows. There was no need to add talking on top of it. Last thing we needed was the owner of the car we were breaking into to come outside pissed and half asleep with his gun to dish out some street justice. Anyone can outrun a cop, or a pissed off man chasing you down with a baseball bat wearing nothing more than tighty whities and a bathrobe, but it’s impossible to out run a bullet.

This car looks promising. It has hippy, hug a tree, save the whales, anti-bush, stickers all over its bumper. There are college books in the back seat, and it was old enough not to have a car alarm. Muffin’s theory is that college kids have book smarts but in general they are stupid because they are young. They leave valuables hidden in the car, thinking its safe because “no one would break into my Jetta; it’s a piece of shit.”

Muffin pulled a chunk of porcelain that is tied to a foot of thin wire out of the pocket of black hoody. We had acquired the porcelain by breaking apart a spark plug. Muffin unwound the wire, pulled it tight and then began to swing it counter clockwise with the porcelain swinging away from his hand. He broke the circle and made the small chunk of porcelain impact hard on to the window. Nothing happened. He began the process again this time bringing it down even harder. There is a sudden Pop, followed by sound of glass cracking. It didn’t shatter and break though. That is not our intention. That would be loud. The window cracked and spider webbed completely; it was broken but it still held its form. That’s what happens when Porcelain comes in contact with glass. We were using chunks of porcelain that we had acquired from breaking a spark plug.

Muffin uses his elbow and forearm to push the glass spider web into the car so he could climb in. He moved quietly and cautiously; no need to be reckless. Being reckless will get us caught. No one wants that, except perhaps the owner of this Volkswagen and the owners of the other cars we had visited this evening.

Muffin isn’t a big guy, pretty average sized. He had no problem getting into the car. He made it look so easy. His years of experience showed as he checked under the seats, in the glove box, robbed the ashtray of spare change and popped the trunk. He was out of the car inspecting the contents of the trunk in less than 3 minutes like some sort of ninja schooled in the arts of criminal behavior. He was a pro, but that didn’t help the fact that there was nothing of value in the vehicle.

It was beginning to get light out and soon people would be waking up to start their day. We wanted to be nowhere near when that happened, so we begin to head back toward my apartment. Just ten blocks away, no more than a hop and a skip away.

We were almost to my apartment when the sun starts to come up. I think about what we had done. Five people were going to wake up to find that someone had shit in their cereal during night.

Muffin and I went into the bedroom of my apartment and started going through the goods we have acquired; about 4.50 in pennies, nickels, and dimes, a couple full cd wallets, and an 8 GB ipod. We didn’t bother to split it up, once we knew what was there we went straight to our dealers house.

*

If you go by the standards of society, than Rob is an asshole. Rob is the type of person that would look you in the face smiling while he stabbed you in the back. He has his good qualities, but in general he is an asshole. Rob is about six feet tall and skinny as a rail. He has done a lot of different drugs, but Meth had become his drug of choice over years and had led to his living skeleton physique.

Over the last few years in the world of meth he had also gathered some decent connections for meth. He taken these connections and started his own black market pharmacy. If you need weed, vicodin, cocaine, or meth you go to Rob.

Muffin and I sat on the floor across from Rob in the master bedroom of Rob’s duplex home. The duplex Rob rented had slowly become what the police commonly refer to as a crack house; a haven for drug use and occasionally prostitution. It smells like cat piss, stale cigarette smoke, with a slight smell of skunk. We really need him to trade with us. We have been up for seven days, and hadn’t partaken in any crystal for almost 12 hours now. Soon we would be on the verge of crashing and sleeping for at least three days, but at this moment the irrational irritation of withdrawals were already beginning and soon desperation for a fix would become unbearable.

Rob and Muffin have been going back and fourth trying work out a trade. It is odd that we are the only ones here. Rob’s house is a crack house after all and is usually filled with various nefarious characters that stay days at a time; never sleeping, just using copious amounts of drugs to avoid the harsh reality of what their own lives have become.

Yeah guys I really don’t have a use for any of this shit” Rob says as he looks at the oddball collection of stolen property we had recently acquired.

Okay I understand not wanting the CD wallets, its nothing but burned copies of shitty indie bands” Muffin says then adds “But that iPod has to be worth at least a couple grams to you”

I suddenly feel my cell phone vibrating in my pocket of my jeans.

Don’t try to tell me what something is worth to me! I know what I want and I don’t want any of this shit.” Rob replies staring Muffin right in the eyes.

My phone begins to vibrate in my pocket again. Someone clearly wants to get a hold of me. I grab my phone out of my pocket and flip it open. My Mother is calling. Suddenly I remember my other life; The life where I’m a son in recovery, who is supposed to have been clean and sober for 9 months now. I can’t remember what the last lie I told her was, or even the last time I talked to her. A week? I think two weeks actually.

Sorry I have to take this.” I say holding my phone up breaking the awkward silence that had filled the room. I walked toward the sliding glass door and opened it to go outside to the cement slab that Rob called his back porch.

Hi Mom! How are you? I haven’t heard from in a while.” I say cheerfully. If I try to sound any sweeter we might both get diabetes. I look back through the sliding glass door at Muffin and Rob as they continue to talk. Reading lips would be a fantastic talent to have right now.

So what’s going on?” she asks.

Oh the usual stuff. I was job hunting earlier today, I Thought I might try to make it out to a 12 step meeting tonight.” I answer as I walk across the slab and look over the fence and watch as cars pass by the Rob’s house on Flavel Street.

Really? Is there anything you want to tell me about?” she asks.

Not that I can think of, everything has been going good.” I answer while I walk back over to glass door to look in on Muffin and Rob. They look like they are having an intense conversation.

Well then is the any reason you haven’t been going to your outpatient treatment? According to your counselor you have missed for five sessions. She called me wondering what had happened to you, because she couldn’t reach you.” Mom says then adds “She thinks you’re using.”

My jaw dropped and my heart skipped a beat as my brain went into panic mode. “That’s not the case mom. I just” I stammer. “I just have…”

Save it Ronnie. I want you go to Serenity Lane Outpatient center and take a UA. If you pass it then there is no problem, but if you fail it I’m done helping you. I mean it. No financial support. NOTHING.” My Mom says "Nothing" with a sternness that I had never heard in her voice before.

Well no Problem. I’ll just go in today and….”I start to say, but before I could finish my sentence my mother cut me off.

They aren’t open today. You are going to do it first thing in the morning!” She states it as if it were a command from God.

Well I won’t have bus fare.” I say hoping it would buy me at least another day. Inside I could see the intense conversation has come to a boiling point and they have started to argue.

What happened to your bus pass? I gave you money to buy one at the beginning of the month. You did buy a bus pass with that money right?” She asks.

I am stone cold busted; I had spent that money on weed and a half gallon of HRD vodka. The panic of being caught in a lie transforms into frustration and is slowly boiling up in a towering withdrawal based rage. I want a fix and this conversation is keeping me from what I want.

YEAH I DID MOM. I just misplaced it. You need to stop giving me the third degree. Everything is fine and I am going to prove it tomorrow.” I say with an angry confidence as I slammed my phone shut, ending the call; as I did Muffin came out the sliding door.

Let’s get the fuck out of here. He is being a total dick.” Muffin says as he exits the house and heads for the gate that leads out of the backyard.

I follow Muffin out and then we start heading for my apartment. We might as well get some sleep and then figure out a way to get a fix. As we walk down Flavel Street, I begin to try to figure out where I am going to get some clean pee for the UA tomorrow.


 

*


 

I slowly open my eyes, waking up from a deep slumber. There is no light coming through the window. It is extremely dark outside. I grab my cell phone off my nightstand and flip it open. The bright screen of the phone illuminates my dark room. It takes a minute for my eyes to adjust, but when the do I read the time.

It is seven a.m.

Excellent I think to myself. That will give me time to locate some clean pee to pass that UA and get my Mom off my back for a while.

I start to go through my text message box to start sending out texts to my drug free friends to see who will be willing help me out; when I notice that I have 30 unread text messages.

What the hell?” I mutter under my breath as I open up my in-box to see what the hell is going on.

All 30 text messages are from my mother; all 30 spanning the course of three days. Wait a minute three days? How long have I been asleep? I check the calendar on my phone and after doing some simple math, the stone cold reality hits me, I have been asleep for 72 hours.

I panic as I go back to my inbox and start reading the text messages. They start out casual, the first reading: asking why I didn’t make it into Serenity Lane and why am I not answering my phone? By message text number thirty I could my mother was beyond pissed at me.

I need to get high. Then I can sort all this out. I just need to find some cash or something valuable to trade. I get out of bed and shiver. The heat isn’t on.

I scan my bedroom dirty bedroom floor. It’s littered with dirty clothes, unread books, fast food wrappers, and empty jewelry and sandwich bags that at one time contained illicit substances. I grab the cleanest dirty clothes I can find off the floor. I haven’t had money to do laundry in a while so my options are very limited. I settle on the clothes I most recently wore: jeans, a Carhart tee shirt, and a black hoody.

I leave my room and walk down the short hallway that connects to my kitchen-living room area. I stop on the grimy kitchen floor that has never known the touch of a mop since I moved in a year ago.

I open the door to the refrigerator hoping for some sort of food to eat. On the bottom shelf is a coagulated puddle of raw chicken blood, there is a half empty Brita water pitcher, and an ass load of condiments from honey mustard to sweet chili sauce, but there is no real food, with real nutritional value.

My stomach has been empty for far too long. Meth is the perfect dieting drug, it leaves you with almost no appetite, but when the high ends you are left with the pain of terrible hunger, as if your stomach is trying to eat itself.

I look to my left and Muffin is sleeping on the couch.

Hey wake up.” I say in my normal speaking voice, hoping it is loud enough to wake him. Having been in prison, Muffin has a bad reaction to being woken up from a deep sleep. He comes out of his sleep swinging his fists. You could be his favorite person in the world or his mortal enemy; he will still start swinging if you wake him up by touching him, so I have learned to keep my distance when trying to wake Muffin up. I had to learn by making the mistake. It was far from pleasant and really quite painful.

Muffin didn’t move. He is the one who knows what to do. He has been living this kind of life much longer than me. I like to think I know how to survive, but in general I don’t have the kind of street smarts that is required to live without a solid income.

I walk from the kitchen area into the living room. It’s filthy. The carpet is littered with stains from spilt bong water, mixed drinks, juice, and pitted with cigarette burns. When I had moved in the carpet was a nice light brown, now it is like a Jackson Pollock painting of multicolored stains, garbage, and burn marks.

I look at the coffee table in front of the couch Muffin is sleeping on. It is cluttered with empty beer and liquor bottles, dvd cases, a glass bong, a few food wrappers, and a half full ash tray. I pick up the ash tray and dump its contents out on my already abused carpet.

I hold it in my hand and feel its weight. It is ceramic, but doesn’t weigh more than a half pound. I toss it up in the air and catch it a few times, before I pitch it at Muffin’s face.

The impact startles him awake; the look on his face is one of pure surprise and shock. His eyes show a look of fear that quickly turns to anger and his fist comes up ready to attack. It takes a second, but he soon lowers his fists as he realizes where he is and what has just happened.

Come on man. Get up. We need to get some food.” I say looking at his dumbfounded half asleep face.

Muffins wipe the sleep from his eyes and sits up on the couch. “Okay.” He says as he stands up, stretches, and groans. Then he asks “What day is it?”

One that ends in Y, now let’s get this show on the road, I am fucking starving.” I say as my empty stomach begins to growl at me.

Okay, let’s go to Safeway. I could definitely go for some red meat.” Muffin says with a smile.


 

*


 

At 9:45 in the morning, Safeway is not the busiest place in the world. There are elderly early bird shoppers, there are a few mothers getting in their grocery shopping after dropping the kids off at school, still half asleep employees walking around like zombies, and then there is us.

Muffin and I are standing in front of the meat department cooler looking for something filling and delicious to eat. Muffin grabs three packages of filet Minot and puts them into the shopping cart that we had grabbed on our way in the front door; then we take the cart and start heading toward the nearest empty aisle. It’s the Hispanic foods aisle.

Once in the safety of the empty aisle, I stand on one side of the cart keeping lookout for anyone that might come into the aisle and Muffin is on the other side of the looking behind me for the same thing. As we both are keeping lookout, Muffin starts to put the packages of Filet Minot inside of his hoody. The packages buldge in his hoody, as if he had suddenly gained a square beer belly since we entered the store.

“Do you think we need anything else?” he asks as he adjusts the packages inside his jacket, and disperses them more even so he just looks a little pudgy in his midsection.

“I could go for some alcohol.” I answer as I look at the dried peppers, and tortilla shells on the shelf next to me.

“Do you want beer or liquor?” Muffin asks as he leaves the cart in front of me and starts to walk toward the head of the aisle.

“I could go for some whiskey.” I state as I follow him out of the aisle.

“Alright, we will stop by the liquor store on our way back to your apartment and you can get some whiskey.” Muffin says as we make our way to the front door.

What did he mean by “you can get some whiskey” I thought as we approach the check-out lanes; I’m not exactly a skilled thief yet to be doing this on my own. I get between Muffin and the employees, as he has trained me to do so they don’t see his sudden onset of fatness. This part always makes me nervous, but I love the adrenalin rush.

As we walk out the front door I look back to see if we are being followed by any employees, but there is no one even looking at us. We head down the side walk and begin to cross the parking lot toward Woodstock Blvd.

“So what did you mean when u said “”You can get some whiskey” when we were in Safeway?” I ask as we begin to cross Woodstock.

“Exactly what it sounded like, you’re going to get the whiskey. I’ve shown you how to do it many times now.” He answers when we are mid-way through the street.

“Are you at least going to come inside with me and block the view of the cashier while I do it, like I did for you those many times you showed me how to do it?” I ask nervously as we finish crossing the street.

“No I don’t feel like getting drunk today. Besides I think it is time for you to try on your own” he says. “Think of it as your first solo mission.” He adds.

I suddenly feel uneasy about the idea procuring alcohol. “Okay.” I say when we get the liquor store parking lot.

“Alright I’m going to wait right here next to this dumpster” He says as he leans against the dumpster.

“Alright.” I say. As I head toward the front door of the liquor store I feel a rush of fear and anxiety. It’s almost paralyzing, but I manage to continue walking until I reach the door. I pause to take a deep breathe, I reach for the handle of the door, and I exhale as I pull it open as I walk inside.

Inside the liquor store, there was one employee behind the register. He was reading a magazine, He looked at me as I walked in. Then returned his eyes to his magazine.

My fear intensified. I’m the only one in the store there is no way I can get away with shoplifting a fifth right now, but I can’t bitch out and leave without anything.

I think about bumping into one of the liquor bottle displays, with all the commotion of it falling over I could get a bottle and get out with no problem, but it could back fire. He might just kick me out of the store while he cleans up the mess.

WAIT A MINUTE! A wave of relief washes over me as I realize I have $5 on my debit card. I could buy it and say I stole it. The only problem with that plan is that I couldn’t possible afford a fifth with only $5. I could over draft my account though and fix it later.

I grab a fifth of Wild turkey off the shelf and head for the cashier.

The cashier and I share a bit of small talk about weather and plans for the day before my transaction is completed. The Cashier hands me the bottle in a bag with my receipt. I take the bottle out of the bag; put it inside my shirt and the receipt into my pocket. I leave the bag on the counter and head for the door.

As I head outside I am temporarily blinded by the sun, but my eyes adjust quickly. I head toward to the dumpster and find Muffin waiting for me.

“Did you get anything?” Muffin asks with an inquisitive look on his face raising one eyebrow.

“Hell yeah I did.” I say as I pull the fifth out of my Hoody “Now let’s get back to my apartment and eat.”


 

*

I could hear the Filet Minot cooking inside my George Forman grill. The steak and bacon wrapped together sizzled under the intense heat of the grill, releasing its tantalizing fragrance and delicious grease. The smell of the bacon alone is making my mouth water beyond belief.

“How is that coming along Muffin?” I ask hoping that the food is getting close to being done.

“Well how do you like your meat? Bloody or well done?” Muffin answers.

“I don’t care. I just want to eat.” I say as my stomach grumbles letting me know that was the correct answer.

“Alright then these two are ready for you then.” he says flipping up the top of the grill up revealing two cooked Filet Minot.

“Fucking sweet.” I say as I jump out of my seat on the couch and walk into the kitchen and grab a plate out of the cupboard. I open the drawer next to the stove and grab a fork. Although my place is a mess, since I started my meth habit, I haven’t been using a lot of dishes; leaving me with an abundance of clean eating utensils. I stabbed a filet with my fork and placed it on my plate and walked back over to the couch and sat down to eat.

“So do you have any fresh ideas on how we can get our hands on some crystal?” I asked as I unwrapped the bacon from the filet and placed its greasy goodness in my mouth.

“I have some ideas.” He answered as he put two more filets on the grill and took a bite out of his freshly cooked filet.

My phone began to vibrate in my pocket. I pulled it out and flipped it open to look at the display. My Mother is calling. I was kind of hoping to avoid this for a little longer.

“Hold that thought” I say as I get up and walk into my pig sty of a bedroom to take the phone call.

I sit down on my bed and prepare for the performance I am about to deliver.

“Hey Mom.” I say coughing in between the two words. “Sorry I haven’t been answering my phone, I have been super sick.” Pausing for a moment to throw a believable cough and sniffle in before adding “It’s been pretty exhausting.”

The line is silent for a few seconds before my Mother speaks “I was getting worried honey. I was thinking maybe I was a little harsh on you the other night. I haven’t heard from you in a few days now. I was getting a little worried."

“I’m sorry Mom, I haven’t felt able to make that journey across town yet. I barely made it to Safeway to get soup last night.” I say sniffling my nose.

“Ronnie you really sound miserable. Don’t worry about getting to Serenity Lane. It can wait. “She says.

“Thanks Mom that is a load off my ‘cough’ shoulders at the moment.” I say as look at hole in my bedroom wall that I had never noticed before.

“Do you need anything Sweetie?” She asks with a true sound of concern in her voice.

“Well I think I over drafted my bank account buying soup ‘cough’ and 7up at the store.” I say as I fall back on my bed. This is going better than I had expected.

“Oh no.” she says. “How much are you over drafted by?”

“Well the soup and soda were only ‘sniffle’ about 7 dollars.” I say. “but the fees will make it 32 dollars in the negative ‘cough’ Could you put forty or fifty in my account. I think that will cover it. Maybe you could leave me a little extra?” I ask biting my lip hoping for a little cash in my pocket.

“I think I could probably swing past a bank on the way home and deposit fifty for you.” She says. “Do you want me to swing by and bring you anything? I haven’t seen you in a while and it sounds like a little company might do you some good.”

“Oh Mom, I wouldn’t want you to catch what I have right now.” I say pausing to fake a fit of uncontrollable coughing. “I really appreciate you helping me with my bank account. You’re the best. As soon as I'm feeling better I will go to Serenity Lane and get that business taken care of. ”

“Alright Ronnie, my lunch break is almost over. I’m glad I got a hold of you.”

“Okay Mom. I love you. I will talk to you later.”

“I love you too.”

I click my phone shut and ponder whether I could have won an Oscar for my performance.

I stand up and walk out of my room. Trying not to step on anything that might be important. Its hard to tell with all the dirty clothes on the floor you cant tell what could be buried underneath.

As I walk into the kitchen I see Muffin has moved out of the kitchen and into the living room. I can hear meat sizzling in the grill. I grab the fifth of Wild Turkey I had recently acquired out of the freezer and a cup out of the cupboard. I set it all on the kitchen counter. I then grab the ice trey out of the freezer. Its full, but it had been sitting in the freezer so long that the ice had shrank to half its original size. I bend the ice trey breaking the ice free of its plastic prison and dump them into my glass. I walk over to the sink and turn on the faucet. I wait for the water to get cold before I start filling the ice trey back up. I place the trey back into its freezing cold prison before returning to finish making my drink.

"So are you ready to hear my plan. Its a bit of fried gold." muffin says as he stacks his empty plate on the already cluttered coffee table.

"I'm listening."

"What is something that Rob wouldn't be able to say no to?"

"Well I know he won't say no to cash."

"Well obviously he won't say no to money, but we don't have any of that."

"True story. Anyway I don't know, what could Rob not say no to?" I ask.

"I think Rob couldn't say no to paraphernalia. Like if we were to get our hands on like a bunch of glass pipes, bongs, detox drinks, and shit like that he wouldn't be able to turn us down. Because they have resale value in his line of work." Muffin says then adds "I mean think about how often have you gotten a bag of crystal or weed and need a piece to do it?"

"I'd say there has been quite a few times where I have found myself in a situation like that."

"Right. So I think if we were to acquire some of those items in bulk, Rob would definetly trade some crystal for it."

"I see what you mean, but where are we going to get any of that?" I ask as I pour wild turkey into my glass. The smell of the bourbon floats up out the glass and tickles my nostrols.

"Well I have an idea on where we will get them."

"Where is that?" I ask as I take a sip from my glass. The alcohol burns on it's way down my throat before reaching my belly and leaving me with a warm sensation as it made a temporary home in the pit of my stomach.

"Well that little record store down the street"

"Yeah, the one by the pizza place. For what it's worth records right?"

"Yeah that’s the place, but it isn't just a record shop, they have a head shop in the back of the store." Muffin answered matter of factly.

"Wait. What are you suggesting we do?" I ask walking over and sitting on the beat up couch opposite of where Muffin was sitting. I fall in to the familiar grooves in the cushion where I have sat a million times before and I hear the wood groan as it vocalizes it's displeasure of having to support my frame.

"Well right now the idea is just an embryo. I want to head down there and get some ideas. Off the top of my head, my first idea would be a smash and grab." He said watching me trying to gauge my reaction.

"A smash and grab seems pretty ballsy." I say as a take a long draw from my glass of bourbon and let the alcohol sit in my mouth for a second so I can savor its burning flavor.

"Ballsy isn't a bad thing. Most of the time no one expects a ballsy move."

"Yeah I'm just envisioning a brick going through a window, an alarm going off, and us not having enough time to grab anything of value before we will be running from the scene of the crime." I say after I swallow my drink. "Plus I'm not exactly great shape to be out running a cop."

"I know what you mean. That is why I want to go there and check it out. I bet there is a better way."

I finish my glass of bourbon and get up and pour another. "Well when did you want to check it out?" I ask.

"How about we go now."

"Let me finish my drink." I say as i flip the grill open to see two perfectly cooked filets staring up at. I reach behind the grill and unplug it from the wall.

"Just bring your drink with you. "

"Really, you are in that much of a hurry?" I ask as take a big gulp from my glass. The remnants of the ice that have nearly disappeared rattle against the cup as I lower it.

"I don't know about you, but I have kind of been itching to get high."

"It has been a little while. I'll just pound this and then we will head down there." I say as I bring the cup to my lips and begin to power down the alcohol as if I had wandered through the desert for days with no way to quench my thirst. I set the cup in the sink after I finish it.

"Alright. Let's go Muffin."


 

*

We had cased the record shop a few hours earlier, from the layout of the building, Muffin decided that he wanted to go in from the roof.

There is a plastic skylight in the ceiling of the headshop portion of the record shop. Muffins plan is to get a ladder to get up on the roof, cut a hole in the skylight, and lower himself in using a rope like object. It sounded like the plot of a bad heist movie, but it was still better than a smash and grab.

We had decided that we couldn't do this by ourselves; Muffin had recruited an old acquaintance of his life as Portland Street Kid. His name was Shard.

Shard just looks un-evolved. He has a broad protruding forehead, an excess of un-manicured wirey facial hair that grows wildly in every direction, and every time he speaks you think he couldn't get any dumber; but he proves every time that he can.

Muffin and I were acquiring the tools for the job, and Shard would meet us at the record store shortly after midnight. We had already found a 25 foot garden hose to use as rope to lower into the head shop. Now we are looking for an aluminum ladder to get on the roof.

It’s a little after 8pm prime time to get a free ladder. Walking down 48th avenue toward Woodstock we soon come across a comcast work truck with a 30ft aluminum strapped to it. Upon closer inspection we discover that it not locked in place. Muffin is on one end and I am on the other, we quietly lift it off the truck and start to walk toward the record shop to stash it until we needed later tonight.

My heart beats with adrenaline and panic. It would only take one person to witness us carrying this ladder down the road and call the cops. From just one glance you could tell we were up to no good. I don't want get arrested stealing a ladder of all things.

My worries disappeared when we got to the record store. Next door to it is two duplexes being built. No security watching the property during the night. It was just an unsecured jobsite. We had already stashed the garden hose there and now we were stashing the next piece of the puzzle for later.

After we finished stashing the ladder we walked back to my apartment to wait until it is 1am, the time we designated to meet up with Shard behind the duplexes.

*

When we left my apartment, we brought two things with us: a claw framing hammer and a crow bar. We were going to need them to get through the skylight.

Shard was there waiting for us when we arrived.

"What took you guys so long?" Shard asks as we come walking up.


© Copyright 2017 Jerad3G. All rights reserved.

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