1.

What I do hardly passes for criminal activity. It’s therapy. Instead of paying some shrink, I’m doing this. The ‘marks’ in turn must analyze their bad karma & change the error of their ways. Some would disagree, & they’d probably have a point; because since when do two wrongs make a right?

I’ll try to stick to the facts but I can’t promise you anything. Because there are those who believe that thieves are also liars. The general populace will stubbornly cling to their hard-won stereotypes. & the myth of the pickpocket who is also a child molester, murderer & wife beater will persist as well.

So though it may be true that I might rob child molesters, that’s neither here nor there. Rather (if I may continue my narrative)—I’m doing society a favor by ‘preying on scum’.

(I like to throw phrases around; being alone a lot does that to you).

Robert (& his unremarkable apartment) were a case in point.

I don’t know whether or not Robert preyed on boys but let’s just say I wouldn’t put it past him.

Though it’s embarrassing to admit, he & I had been an item once... When he found out how old I was, he came running because that sort of thing did it for Robert.

He’s only worth mentioning in passing, because people like him are only good for one thing. In short, Robert was more mercantile than I. & unfortunately somewhat disappointing like all the rest. What he sought (unconsciously) was a duplication of something that had come before. Very disappointing Robert was, because I wanted to tell him I am not a reproduction of some former love but an entity unto myself; a one-of-a-kind; but I couldn’t convince him.

I’m sad to say we didn’t last very long.

Undoubtedly, Robert’s now gallivanting around Europe with another young, unsuspecting reproduction of what has come before.

I should’ve cleaned him out more.

He won’t get it, of course. Me, or those boys?

I’m boring myself to death with this monologue.

But as a nihilist would say—it doesn’t matter. Still, that quiet-desperation thing is sad.

I keep the lights out & do a thorough check with my flashlight. The place is as neat as a pin, his mother would be proud.

My son; my cock-sucking son.

Now there’s nothing to do but ransack the place. & I‘ve got oodles of time. He’s out of town & his place is not alarmed, & without a doorman I can pretty much come & go as I please.

The quickest way to increase your net worth is by overturning a coffee jar & finding a neatly coiled wad of bills inside. Jewelry too can cause your net worth to jump like a frog. That’s the kind of mission I’m on, overturning ceramic objects & seeing what lies therein, (invariably sentimental crap: old photos, junky pieces of jewelry, silverware used when he was but a boy)… I know the guy’s loaded; so I hang on. The bottom-most drawer of his bedroom dresser turns up something interesting: two gold coins. The first thing I think is: where can I fence them…

Worth a grab. They go into my pocket. Despite my somewhat strange resemblance to an animal set loose in a trailer park—I put everything back in its place. A neatnik, I’m also wearing gloves. After finding the gold coins, I’m disinterested. They’re probably insured & he’ll report them stolen. I’ll sell them when I’m ‘abroad’.

At this point I realize I’m being too cautious, so I switch on a small lamp.

There is a nice chair in the living room. I sit in it. It’s very peaceful here; I could stay for a while. There’s a remote on the coffee table. I flick the television on. He has Premium cable. I’m entranced by multiple movies. It’s nice but I should be continuing what I came here to do. I flick off the tv.

I check out the bathroom, can’t resist. As usual, the usual sad state of bachelor porn piled high near the toilet. Nude boys on the bathroom walls too, so he has something concrete to visualize while he’s jerking off in the shower.

Robert, you’re incorrigible.

I piss in the toilet but don’t flush, leaving the lid up.

I go into his bedroom & lay on his bed for a few minutes. The coins clink in my pocket. He’ll see an indent on the bed. The shades are drawn & it’s dark & quiet. Street sounds can be heard from below. The sound makes me want to close my eyes.

I should have a place like this, I reason. Instead, where do I live? In a hovel; can’t afford better. I doubt I’d enjoy it as much as I’m enjoying this now, because that’s the nature of desire—to want what you haven't got.

I don’t bother to locate his financial drawer. Stealing credit cards doesn’t do it for me.

Being robbed is bad but I let flaky logic assert itself where ever it wants. It’s my ball game.

I eventually leave the hard surface of his mattress.

As usual, he has pictures of himself strategically placed about the apartment. Can anyone be less vain? Actually, these portraits are the norm.

I check out a few & notice he doesn’t have much to be vain about. I locate a felt-tipped pen (in a nearby cup) & next to the picture of him in a bathing suit (island vacation) I draw an arrow pointing to his paunch. ‘Could Lose a little Here’ I write, starkly . I often do this, set out little indicators that lets them know that I‘ve been. It drives them nuts, & probably keeps them awake for hours at night. That’s why it’s important to have a decent job as cover, so they’ll never guess it’s you.

I can’t resist the urge to deface; it adds dimension to this humdrum ransacking.

Once I pick up the marker I feel I have to continue. Headed for pure mischief, I write a couple of comments here & there, then decide to take some clothes out of the closet, laying them out on the bed. He & I are about the same size. I line up two suits, one black, one blue. I pull shirts out. Also ties, socks. An ensemble. I try it on, tossing my undies in the trash. It seems the blue suit doesn’t fit too badly. I roll up my clothes, locating a shopping bag (Barney’s).

Dressed up & ready to go. One last thing. Look in the fridge. Should I stay for supper? The fridge is as empty as I am morally bankrupt. But the freezer holds a nice slice of sirloin. Thanks, Robert.

I toss it in the Barney’s bag & set out on my way. Turning the lamp off, I closed the door quietly behind me, removing my black gloves. An old woman on the first floor sees me, obviously mistaking me for the prick in 5G. I wave obsequiously to her as I pass.

I return to my hovel, & dump the bag. Too lazy to cook, I go out dressed as Robert. You can see I have identity problems. (Doesn’t everyone? & where is this taking place? Just some city; a vague, unnamed metropolis. I know it has to be somewhere but I don’t feel like saying where).

I went out as Robert, which was… different. It’s as if a big burden has been lifted from my shoulders. I find myself walking down the street proclaiming, ‘I’m somebody else.’

You’d think I’d go to a bar to further explore the implications of Robert’s neediness. But no, I merely strolled randomly through the streets. I like to walk down streets & look into shop windows, gaze at people. By day you’ve got the foot or the sky. By night you’ve got me looking full into the face of darkness.

Eventually, I stop for a bite at some restaurant, still pretending I’m Robert. Acting self-absorbed, my eye roves towards the young things in the vicinity.

I order a stiff drink, then a lamb shank with gravy, mushrooms & mashed potatoes.

I’m drunk by the time the food arrives. Robert went about things that way. Sitting there, eyeing the people that passed me by (I have a tiny table by the window), I also plan my next robbery.

Robert was a cheap tipper so, so was I. As I noted the dirty look on the waiter’s face as I departed, I tell myself, that guy doesn’t hate me, he hates Robert.

Who cares, all waiters are whores anyway.

I hit the streets intent upon getting something on.

Because robbing someone always gives me a hard on.

 

2.

There are certain people you like to take advantage of. I know I’m sounding spiteful again.

I’d rather take from well-to-do individuals than from large corporations because it’s a far more intimate form of acquiring wealth, like being an embezzler to the king.

A guy in a suit passes me on the street. Wow, what is it about that suit that bothers me? When a guy is wearing a suit he’s thinking suit-thoughts. This one is grey-haired; & corporate corruption oozes off him like oil from a sinking tanker. His eyes glint with greed; his pretentious suit seems out of place in the bright, innocent sunlight.

I cross the street & in my reverie fixate on a kind of corporate takeover; i.e., I'll find a suit’s apartment & tip it over.

I know of a suit’s apartment, but might encounter trouble breaching the point of entry. Suits, being overly paranoid & materialistic, employ doormen. & one must be careful when lying to doormen.

I lied to the doorman & made sure it was a damned good lie. I said I was a good friend of ‘Donald’s’ & asked if he’d left me the key. I knew he hadn’t but we had to make it look like someone had slipped up. I was carrying an overnight bag, & explained that I’d just gotten into town. The doorman was expectedly confused. I stated my full name, ‘Terrence Brathwaite the 3rd’. Only the briefest bit of chaos ensued whereby I slipped him a $20. I feigned upset & a need to use the ‘john’ badly. You see, I was upset with Donald.

I told him I wanted to go up to see if Donald had left a note on the door, & was granted permission.

With my knowledge of corporate schedules I knew I had a few hours on my side. With my knowledge of doorman shifts (they change at five, just like taxis) I figured I might as well make myself at home.

Of course, getting into the apartment was another matter.

I rang the buzzer first. I had a lock picking kit in my bag, which consisted of two devices—a pin-like implement & an L-shaped tool. You never know what kind of locks you’re going to come up against. The dead bolts are easiest. This one was double-locked, & took awhile. I was sweating. like a pig.

The bottom & top lock made delicious sounds as they opened, one after another. I slipped in, & tossed the bag on the shag rug. I was thirsty & needed to take a leak (I hadn’t lied).

The apartment reeked of materialist consumption. Everywhere I looked—clean surfaces & excess furniture. Esquire & Maxim mags lay scattered on the floor. A 50-inch Plasma television hogged up an entire wall in one room, a pristine iMac sat on a glass table. The layout, though pretty to the eye, wasn’t the answer to my dreams, however.

What had happened to the Picasso linotypes & painting by Francis Bacon I so fondly recalled?

It occurred to me—the stock market had ‘crashed’ as it does on occasion & someone else owned them now.

There was nothing but wine & Evian water in the fridge.

I got some ice out of the freezer & poured myself a glass of ‘Les Charmes’ Chardonnay.
I suppose a rendering of the suit is in order.

In my mind corporate America is responsible for many ills. But I won’t bore you with them.
With drink in hand I head for the bedroom. I’m looking for a picture of corporate attainment, sneer & all. What I find leaves me as flaccid as a wet rag.

His music collection was laughable; his wardrobe—common.

Even his matching towels made me want to hang my head in despair. Perhaps I was losing my edge. Only people who are past their prime or burnt out lose their edge.

I pour more wine. God, these gloves are hot. I check my watch. Barely 2:10. I have hours, which seem like days (& yet the days always manage to end, somehow.) I pour another glass (who’s counting), turning the stereo on. To see what the bore was listening to.

Something I liked, surprisingly.

(What? Who cares.)

I’m getting into the mood to take a peek around.

I want cash. I know he has a stash of it somewhere. The rest of this kitschy shit could jump out the window.

I stand before his dresser. A mirror hangs on the wall. I can see behind me.

In case you aren’t aware, the surface lies, & so do people. I leave drawers open, take books, rifle their pages, (leaving them on the floor). I lift the mirror off the wall, glance behind it (nothing). Rip pictures off the mirror (photos; again pedestrian images, always a semi naked body in it somewhere).

I lift the mattress & peek under. I open closets, removing crap from the top shelf. (All shit. Tennis rackets; I said he was predictable.)

The music was getting on my nerves. I put a CD on.

The cash is always where you’d least expect it to be.

Not in the dishwasher or dirty laundry basket.

I go back to the bedroom.

Plain as day. A big white porcelain Persian cat—hollow inside, set before a sports trophy. It was kind of cute. I took the thing in my hands & shook it. Something rattled inside. I removed the black stopper on the bottom—Bills; clean, shiny, large denominations.

I guess he’d freak when he found his pussy empty.

I shove the dough into my pocket without bothering to count it. The few hundreds I saw convinced me.

I walk around, less bored. The place had five rooms.

The wad would come out to a pretty number & I guess I’m looking like I don’t tell the truth. But he’d sold the Bacon, after all. I kind of liked that painting.

Another aside.

Strange what I’m doing, disrespecting other people’s property. As a matter of fact I often find myself asking, where do I get off? If he should walk in on me & catch me right now, nonchalantly going through his things...

The tick-tock of the clock informs me that he might pop in—like that guy in the Gevallia commercial who slips out of his office for that shit coffee (Who buys that line of crap? No one I know goes home for coffee; especially when there’s a Starbucks on every corner).

I find a pair of argyle socks & a tie by who knows, Versace?

What I’m seeking are psychological insights—into my criminal mind. & yet, all I have here is mere vandalism.

A true psychopath would never toot his horn like this.

I must be a mediocre criminal.

In the tub taking a bath, I hear the phone ring. Some pretentious female voice starts blathering on about how tired she is & why doesn’t he, Donald, ever give her a ringy-dingy nowadays? I have half a mind to pick up the receiver & tell her that Donald likes them well-hung, honey. But I stay put, enjoying the quiet anonymity of life’s escape. Sometimes answering machines aren’t worth the trip.

Apparently she’d go unfucked for a long time.

I’d better be drying off.

Instead of scribbling vague arrows all over his walls this time, I leave him a note. Skillfully employing my left hand, I painstakingly print:

Donald,

Stopped by while you were out & was disappointed to not find you in. I waited awhile, going through your things more out of boredom than anything else. The wine was good, so was the bath, but still, no you. I hope that job of yours is worth it. I borrowed a few things (hope you don’t mind). & was disappointed to see you’d sold the art.

—don’t be surprised if a few odds & ends aren’t where they’re supposed to be.

Don’t worry, you can always blame it on the maid.

p.s. some woman named Carol called, but I erased the message (accidentally). My advice? Tell her you’re queer. It’s about time, no?

See you around,

Love & Death, Terry.

Passing the doorman on my way out—he doesn’t seem to notice me. My freshly scrubbed face says I'm headed downtown for a restaurant or the gym. So much for the so-called impenetrability of doorman buildings.

 

3.

Among the many types of people there are, you can separate them into two defining categories; those who see you as essentially a good person (& thus cannot see the bad in you), & those who see you as essentially a bad person (& thus cannot see the good in you).

Imagine how that makes me feel. The world sets you up to fulfill its expectations. So if a person sees you as essentially good you can take him to the cleaners many times over & he’ll never catch on.

My so-called marks are people I’ve met under ‘auspicious’ occasions.

In one instance, I was working as a waiter at one of those university functions, posing as a hardworking, earnest type.

Donald wasn’t as bad as I’ve made him out to be. I met him at this fundraiser (handing out hors d’ouvres. He repeatedly came back for the apricot-brie turnover). Wearing a name tag, I knew he’d contributed a substantial sum (of over $200,00 I’d heard) to the university. I imagined his name covered by some undergraduate’s ass in an auditorium somewhere (or they’d made a bust of him, I can’t remember).

An ostensibly straight man, Donald had been talking to some snooty chick, an I’ll-take-this-town-by-balls- type, who turned out to be his secretary. I doing the gig ‘cause a friend offered me a bribe.

Do thieves need money? For all respective purposes they need to look as if they’re hardworking citizens. I wanted to mix drinks but they already had a mixologist. Maybe I wanted to eye the walking wallets.

I’d never seen such a hungry horde of well-heeled types. To tell you the truth it disgusted me. Weren’t the upper classes supposed to have table manners? These people gobbled; you‘d think they hadn‘t eaten in a week. They also eyed the help. I couldn’t help but notice that. Perhaps the contributors thought they should get something for free. Donald Steffenmeier (what a name) came after me like a rat for the cheese. He even invited me home.

But old S. was barking up the wrong tree. When it comes to relationships I pretty much see everything from a bird’s eye view. I didn’t go to his apartment to play footsie (or have my cock caressed), but to scope out the layout.

The doorman saw me that night. & probably remembered my face. I found the building impressive. Large, with a marble hallway as vast a museum entrance. The elevator was oak paneled, the hallways carpeted, you couldn’t hear a sound.

He lived on the 22nd floor, which gave a stellar view (of the park). I asked myself—what am I doing here?

I played innocent & Donald assumed I would never hurt a fly; (you see, he was that type). He had a calming influence on me & didn’t ask me to take off my clothes. He just left me in the middle of a large room with these prints by Picasso & the (aforementioned) painting by Bacon, which struck you right in the gut . We talked about art. & he kept saying ‘I’ve done well this year.’

So too had I, admittedly but it was small potatoes in comparison to his take.

Things were lying about in the gaudy, careless way of the rich.

It could rub a person the wrong way.

A framed photo featured him with his arms around a woman. ‘My wife’, he’d said somewhat emotionally, followed by—uhh, ex-wife.

Yeah, beards need to be shaved once in a while.

But the winds of change bloweth hard.

Posh. The locks would be a breeze. I asked him about the alarm system (what kind of security do you use?)

We have great security, he informed me. A food delivery person needs a written invitation just to get in here.

Hmm, I’ll see about that.

I chalked it all down & told myself, admire the wife, make eye contact.

I could use you, he’d said, putting it out there & getting smarmy.

Use me–? I asked.

In my firm, he said. I own the Nimbus Corporation.

I thought I was going to throw up. You’re barking up the wrong sapling, I wanted to say.

But I threw the ball back, like the pseudo-team player that I was. I’m a student, I volunteered, with somewhat different aspirations.

Oh…? To do what? Donald needfully inquired.

To study Animal Behavior.

Really? His face wore a slightly disappointed expression. I started yammering away about how apes, dolphins, & certain species of bat have been known to perform heroic acts for their brethren & that they, being animals, were left out of our ‘pool of collected knowledge’, excluded, like an inferior race…

I went on to explain that certain vampire bats will let one of their own ‘feed on them’ if, after a night of hunting, they came up with nothing. There was lots more, which I’d gleaned from the National Geographic channel (I didn’t tell him that). So you can take your corporate job & shove it, I almost said. I imagined Donald applying the analogy to himself, thinking, how, after a night of foraging, & coming up empty, I might open up one of my veins… for him.

This statement seemed to galvanize his libido. Soon, I was herded into the bedroom, which was home to a huge bed, & a ludicrous shag.

Look it’s pretty late, I said… I was tired & wondered if he had a safe in the wall, hidden behind the tacky photo of the chick with a little too much makeup.

He was a little too show-offy about his art. He herded, I continued to balk. I’d seen what I’d needed. Perhaps I could find out his work schedule?

You want me to work for you, I said. Do you work, like, five days a week?

Unfortunately I do. He plopped down on the bed, not without grabbing me first & whispering, come here. We both lay back on the bed. He kept looking at me & I goaded myself into asking more questions.

Do you live alone?

Yes, well my wife—uh, ex-wife—moved out.

Are you seeing anyone? The pained look on his face told me he was only seeing his job. I got it. A workaholic. (Worse than an alcoholic).

Stay tonight, he insisted. I looked at him & smiled.

There was a work number on his card. Everything was written down so I wouldn’t forget. We hadn’t had done anything too kinky. He’d just rubbed his dick against my ass all night long, while jerking me off long & hard.

I don't hand out my number.

 

4.

Don no doubt got home, read the note & rummaged through his imagination.

I must’ve stood out like a lone hitch hiker on a highway.

I’ve never told anyone about my extracurricular activities. As you can see, I’d be valuable to the CIA or something. But this is a one man operation & there is no central hub.

I wouldn’t mind settling down with someone but for now a goldfish will have to do (dubbed ‘Gold’).

I am responsible, I own a goldfish. The trouble with ransacking other people’s apartments is that it becomes a fairly automatic occupation after a while. You can’t very well ask yourself, isn’t this exciting?

I once ransacked a lady’s apartment & didn’t locate her stash for the longest time. I’d gone through her panty drawer numerous times, while checking the cupboards in the kitchen. The coffee canister held only coffee grinds, the cookie jar, crumbs.

I sat in her bedroom & said: think of the most unlikely place.

I dumped a large box of tampons on the floor. Guess what.

A female orifice is not a bad place to hide things. I’m sure she’d wished she’d stuck it up there when she found the cache gone.

Yeah, that tampon thing threw me enough to make me realize that maybe my instincts about women were right, after all.

What instincts, you might not want to ask?

The genders are separated by these unbreachable gaps.

She’s incomprehensible; while he’s an animal.

Thus, anything can be true.

Men hide their money in dirty old shoes; women hide their money in—well, let's just leave it.

I only hit the places of the well-to-do. I do not rob old age pensioners & as to the woman with the tampon ‘cache’, she was a long story. Because I rarely did women in any sense of the word. As for men, as you may have suspected, they often did me, but in only one sense of the term.

 

5.

Life is beautiful when you can live it. After I’ve committed a crime I feel free, indescribably free. Who can catch me? Along with this feeling of freedom comes the incredible urge to exalt in the small details. I am made new again & have wiped the slate clean by moving forward into the future. Money gives you security. You can relax, go out & party.

Actions cleanse us. Theft, whether it be shoplifting (done in plain view of cameras nobody watches) or some other minor infraction, must not be witnessed by others.

To pull off stunts in broad daylight, (or fluorescent lights) you must either be invisible or a master manipulator of space.

I often find it difficult not to hop on a passing bus or train heading somewhere for the simple fact (again, instinctual) that committing crimes produces the impulse to flee.

 

6.

I’m raiding another nest.

Let me be sufficiently vague, as the theorists like to say. Vague enough to let you know that my list of acquaintances is quite long.

It’s owner is away.

The sad thing is that I need money. I’ve just been to a dentist; now I’m in the hole for two G’s.

Rich bastards are always handing me their cards in bars. Rich fags are in a class by themselves. They have no need to support nagging wives & a line of straggling children. They view Boy-toys as their ‘kids’ (I know I’m playing fast & loose with language, but bear with me).

These kinds of men are at the top of a secret society & make sure they enjoy the fruits of it.

I’m lucky it’s a holiday, a three-day weekend. Most fags wouldn’t be caught dead in the city on a holiday. For those of you who have forgotten, I am a loner. & though I am often seen with the occasional man of means, I can’t be said to ‘work the scene.’

This guy's gone the whole nine yards. There’s a television in every room & a Jacuzzi on the top deck. The place must be secured, right? Well, if there’s anything I teach you, it’s that the obvious is not always the obvious. Money is hidden in plain view & living spaces are not always secured.

I might have a key. Or I may have climbed in a back window (suburbs only). I may enter because me & the lock-picking device are a force of one.

I’m in his closet, coming up empty-handed.

There’s no doubt I’ve chosen a tedious way to make a living.

Why not rob a bank, you might ask?

The thing is, I’m not your ordinary thief. Stultifying schedules nauseate me. & sticking guns in people’s faces can be nerve wracking in the long run.

I simply covet the belongings of those men who have coveted me.

As you know the pathology is in there. Sometimes all you can do is filch personal items, because there is the odd time when you come up with only a slim gold chain. or stuff the great grandmother gave to his mother shortly before she shuffled off her mortal coil.

I respect the sanctity of keepsakes. In fact, the sanctity of personal space is also a kind of relic to me. I’ve been known to remove my shoes upon entering an apartment & even vacuuming before I leave. The vacuum cleaner is always where I expect it to be (in the closet near the front door. Can people be any less predictable?) The place might’ve been a mess but I’m sure to leave it more presentable. The bonus of being robbed by yours truly.

I like to throw them off. After all, if I come under suspicion a mere visit to my pad will puzzle them since I do not own a vacuum cleaner. It might explain why I enjoy sleeping in other people’s beds, rummaging through their belongings, & ‘borrowing’ their cologne.

If you’ve ever been to a department store you might be surprised at the insane prices a good cologne goes for these days.

I have Goldilocks syndrome, an affliction marked by an I-want behavior, wherein the subject tries on different personalities by dressing in the target’s clothes; (in Goldilocks’ case, she was trying on things in the Bears’ house. In your average case, the child will wear the clothes of one of the parents).

It seems I’d like to fill the shoes of my wealthy patrons, if only briefly. Taking their stuff adds to the je-ne-sais-quoi of my tangled identity.

Right now I’m extracting a fine ensemble from another closet. He’s most likely at some gay paradise (there’s always one nearby).

If only I could be as straightforward as he in seeking my pleasures, but one must find happiness where ever one can.

I have quite a collection of suits. Some need to go to the tailor’s for adjustment. One particular suit looks like it’s from Italy. Italian suits usually run small. Perhaps I imagine too much, but since I’m disgusted with not having located any hard currency I take my time putting it on, finding the right shirt. The shoes won’t do. There’s a big old mirror on the wall. I’m gazing at him as I put it on.

‘This is insane’, I pronounce, (in a British accent). ‘I’ll get the lout that’s rendered me penniless.’ His name if I may spare it, is Joaquin; I call him Jacko. Jacko has obviously cornered the market this year, made a killing, etc. despite the economic horrors visited on all & sundry. Jacko must have money invested overseas. I’m looking at myself now. Vile thoughts surface. What’s with this hostility towards surfaces?

But I like the way I look in the suit. I wander about his palatial suite peeking into things.

Everything’s nice but there’s not much to lay my hands on. It’s the typical Jacko mind fuck. I remembered what a tightwad he’d been. I’d had to pay for my own drinks that night.

I’m about to fling everything from the shelves.

I urinate in the sink. First I hold a clean glass to my dick & fill it up; I place it in the fridge. Just a joke, Jacko.

Before moving on to worse ideas, I take some soda from the fridge. Jacko has decidedly weird taste because there’s Jackie O memorabilia all over the place (a connection?). It’s become a bit oppressive in here. Plus there are bottles of vitamins lining the counters.

I think it’s too late to reverse the aging process for our subject. The guy’s seen better days, let’s face it. From face to flabby rear end, he’s better off consulting a surgeon. But who am I to talk, I admit, I’m not yet old, but I don’t look at myself in the mirror as much as I used to.

I’m out of urine. I’m certain he has some whipped cream in his fridge. I get down on my hands & knees & peer into the door of his fridge. Pickles, maraschino cherries, grated cheese, American cheese. No whipped cream.

It feels good to short circuit. But I mustn’t throw shit all over the floor.

I lay face down on his bed. Perhaps a nap will do me good.

I doze off.

When I awake it’s evening. I must’ve slept for a while. It’s incomprehensible but the place is sealed like a tomb.

Again the quiet, the anonymity; whose embrace is like that of a lover. I could be in a hotel in Paris, or anywhere at all. But all I’ve got to show for my concern is this wrinkled Italian suit. I examine the objets d’art that are displayed around me. Pure kitsch… Stuff you might dump in front of a Salvation Army at two o’clock in the morning when no one was looking.

If I’d only known he was such a skinflint.

Isn’t it true that I’d smiled at him when I first met him, responding to him in kind, as they say.

On the other hand, he frolicked with his own kind—loving them in kind—but what did Jacko know about love. There were numerous portraits of he & numerous others. Jacko obviously loved groups & couldn’t do without them. I studied each picture carefully. These apartments are virtual museums to the individuals who own them; but there is a cookie-cutter aspect to them. In every picture Jacko has someone’s arm around him.

That’s the thing about them, I keep saying to myself, they’re all surface. You’d think I’d come up against some substance, say someone who kept Camus or Sartre in the john; but they’re are all shallow materialists.

As a general rule I only take loans from men. They can go out & get some more, I reason. Sure, I make them pay. But they’ll only go out & do it again. So much for theory.

I ate feta cheese out of a jar (imported from Greece) & did not care that I dripped virgin olive oil all over his carpet. I watched the 6 o’clock news. The usual stabbings, hit-&-runs, suicides, things you didn’t even want to know.

I found some codeine in his medicine cabinet & well-bottled after-shave. There were some decent plates from England in the dining room cabinet.

While I was at it I made myself an omelet. & no, I didn’t do the dishes. Then I took a dump in his john & left it there. Pretty tacky, but so what.

Upon leaving, a neighbor, just getting in looked me over knowingly & smiled. Another one of Jacko’s boy wonders, she probably stated, to herself,

—Where does he find them?

In the sewer, lady; (a little known secret).

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© 2006 Van Scott - Contributor's Bio