The Pot Thief Who Studied Pythagoras

by J. Michael Orenduff

  When I walked out of Columbia Coffee Company, it had started to drizzle. I scooted across the street and transferred the coffees from the paper cups to mugs and placed them in a warm oven. Then I prepared everything for huevos rancheros, including some Gruet, and sat back to wait for Susannah to wake up.

  I passed the time by reading another article from the Pythagoras anthology.

  Susannah awoke with a hangover. Aspirin, hot coffee, a hot shower, and a hearty desayuno of huevos rancheros got her going.

  I was hoping to keep the conversation on something other than Kauffmann’s treachery, but I didn’t have to do anything to bring that about. Susannah saw the book on Pythagoras and asked me, somewhat tongue-incheek I think, what new and exciting things I had learned while reading it.

  “Pythagoras was introduced to philosophy by Thales.”

  “I remember Thales from my philosophy course,” she said, “but the only thing I can remember is that he was the first philosopher.”

  “Apparently, that’s all there is to remember. Only one sentence of his writing remains: ‘Everything is water’.”

  “I guess he’d never been to New Mexico.”

  I was glad to see her sense of humor was intact. “We know a lot more about Pythagoras,” I volunteered. “He traveled to Egypt in search of knowledge, but the schools there wouldn’t admit him until he went though forty days of fasting and deep breathing to achieve the proper discipline. Pythagoras said to them, ‘I have come for knowledge, not for discipline’.”

  “Better than today’s students, Hubie; most of them don’t have discipline or knowledge.”

  “And don’t seem to want either,” I added. “Pythagoras also traveled to India where it’s rumored he met Gautama the Buddha. After accumulating wisdom in all these travels, he founded a school where he taught his own philosophy of life.”

  “What was his philosophy of life?”

  “Part of it was avoidance of beans.”

  “You’re joking.”

  “I’m not. In fact, his death is reputed to have come when he was fleeing from rebels. He ran up to a beanfield and refused to cross, whereupon he was captured and killed. But here’s something about his school that I really like. When a student was expelled, a tomb bearing his name was erected in the garden. Pythagoras taught that such a student was dead and would proclaim, ‘His body appears among men, but his soul is dead. Let us weep for it!’.”

  “You know, Hubie, I was thinking about you being expelled. Now that the president of UNM has publicly praised you and described you as one of their graduates, I wonder if you should petition to have the record of your dismissal expunged.”

  “I don’t think so; it would be like acknowledging it was valid to begin with. On top of that, if I keep my dismissal status, the University might someday erect a tomb on campus with my name on it.”

  She laughed—it was good to hear—took another sip of coffee and then looked pensive. I thought she was going to say something about Kauffmann, but instead she said, “Hubie, Kaylee wants to get married.”

  “What! Does she have anyone in mind as a groom?”

  She nodded. “Arturo, her fellow pot scrubber.”

  “How did that happen? Or do I want to know?”

  “Tristan brought her to the restaurant and I introduced her to my boss. She agreed to take the job, and then the boss had Arturo show her the ropes because he’s the only one back there who speaks English.”

  “Did showing her the ropes get her pregnant?”

  “Hubie! Just listen, O.K.?”

  “O.K.”

  “I asked the boss, like you had suggested, if he had any idea where she could stay temporarily. He said Arturo’s parents were always just scraping by and could use a little rent. He talked to them, and they agreed to rent her a spare room. The boss is paying them twenty-five dollars a week, and Kaylee is able to get back and forth to work with Arturo. So in the course of working together, living in the same house, and commuting to work together, I guess they fell in love.”

  I had a cynical remark in mind, but kept silent since I’d already been admonished once.

  “It’s kind of romantic, Hubie. A confused runaway girl and a hardworking pot scrubber without much chance to attract a girlfriend find each other and fall in love.”

  Considering what had happened to Susannah, I didn’t think it was a good time for her to be talking about people falling in love, but I didn’t see any way to change the subject, so I asked her to tell me about Arturo.

  “He’s a sweetheart, Hubie. Works hard, always polite to everyone. He smiles a lot, too.”

  “They haven’t known each other very long.”

  “No, but true love isn’t a matter of time.”

  “So when’s the date?”

  “They haven’t set it yet. There’s something they have to do first.”

  “Get a blood test?”

  She sighed. “You don’t need blood tests to get married these days, Hubert. Arturo has to ask for her hand in marriage.”

  “That’s very traditional of him, Suze, but who’s he going to ask?” I really didn’t see this coming, but I should have known from the sneaky smile on Susannah’s face.

  “You, Hubert. Kaylee asked him to ask you.”

  57

  It was time to make the trip I had hoped not to have to make. I chose a weekday because I figured the house I would be visiting was more likely to be empty.

  I set my alarm for the second time in a month—abnormal for me—and got up in time to make the 6:50 flight to LAX. The flight was packed with business people getting a jump on the competition. Owing to the miracle of the jet engine and the change of time zone, we arrived at the exact time we had departed.

  That set the surreal tone for what I found in Los Angeles.

  I took a shuttle to the car rental company and picked up a car I ended up spending more time in than I had on the plane. There was a long line at the on-ramp to the freeway, and the scene once you did get on looked like a Hollywood chase sequence, so I consulted the map the young lady at the rental counter had given me—she said she was just there temporarily because she had already done several screen tests—and took Sepulveda north from the airport.

  It was slow going with heavy traffic and lots of lights, but it was better than the freeway. At least I could see what I was passing, so I was able to spot a store I would need to visit. It took almost an hour to reach Sunset, but it didn’t matter because I wanted to arrive after everyone who was going out of the house would have already done so. Even then, I was a little early, so I found a Carl’s Jr. and had a breakfast sandwich and a cup of coffee. Carl or his Jr. had an old-fashioned payphone—not the sort Superman could change clothes in. It was a black boxy phone mounted to the wall. I made a call and let it ring until a machine answered, then I hung up.

  I turned east on Sunset and then right again after less than a mile up a steeply winding road lined by attractively designed homes surrounded by eucalyptus, Lombardi poplars, palo verdes, and some other trees I couldn’t name. Unlike what I expected in southern California, the homes were neither large nor ostentatious. They looked like they had been designed by skilled architects, people who designed houses to live in rather than to show off. That boded well for me since it meant they would likely have sturdy doors, something true break-in artists would avoid but which I was counting on.

  I had never done this before, but I had a plan.

  After a few turns I came to the house I was looking for and pulled into the driveway. The drive curved around the side of the house, so I couldn’t see the garage if there was one. I parked in front and walked up to the front door. It was solid wood with a dark stain and looked to have been custom made. The doorknob was bronze and when I got down and looked at it closely, I saw the brand name etched under the knob. I got out a sketchpad and did a quick rendering of the device.

  It was a quiet enclave with only a hint of traffic noise in the distance. Mainly what I heard were bird
s chirping and leaves rustling in a gentle breeze. Despite the serene setting, I was nervous. I could feel the paperboy or milkman standing behind me, and I almost couldn’t resist the temptation to look over my shoulder. If I looked once, I would look again, and then I’d lose what little nerve I had mustered up for the occasion.

  Because of the elevation and heavy foliage, the only building I could see was part of the Getty Museum a couple of miles away on the other side of

  405. I wished I were there staring at the art instead of on a stranger’s porch

  staring at his lock. But I stayed where I was.

  Then I rang the doorbell and waited.

  No one answered. Maybe the bell was out of order. I knocked rather loudly on the door. When no one answered the second time, I got back in my car and drove down to Sepulveda to the store I had spotted earlier.

  It was an Ace hardware store; I was starting to feel at home in them. I bought fifty dollars worth of supplies then returned to Carl’s Jr. and called the same number again with the same result.

  Then I went back to the house and went through the same routine. I rang the doorbell and waited. When no one answered, I knocked rather loudly on the door. When no one answered the second time, I went back to the rental car like I had done before, but this time I didn’t drive away. Instead, I brought my supplies from the hardware store and a box I had brought from Albuquerque and sat everything on the front porch.

  As I lined up everything I would need on the porch, I was wishing I didn’t have to do this in broad daylight, but I didn’t have a choice. I certainly wasn’t going to break in at night when someone would be home.

  Of course they might return at any point, so I set to work.

  I’m a treasure hunter, not a burglar, so I have no idea how to break in to a house. I had put together my own plan, perhaps unorthodox, but it suited my needs.

  I took a new lockset out of its plastic packaging, thinking as I did so that it should be easier to break into the house than it was to break into the plastic packaging. I studied how the lockset worked, took out its cylinder, and put the lockset down on the porch. I took out the new screwdriver I’d purchased and put it next to the lockset.

  Then I took out the sledgehammer.

  I checked my watch and gave the lock on the door a solid blow. The brand was Defiant, no doubt a good serviceable look, but it couldn’t defy a thirty-five pound sledge. It broke off like a dry stick. Pieces of the lock fell around my feet with a clinking noise, and I heard other parts of it fall off inside the house.

  I also heard the alarm go off, but I had anticipated that. I ran inside the house and was gone for perhaps forty-five seconds. Then I came back to the front door and removed the cylinder from the lock I had destroyed. I put the old cylinder in the new lockset and installed the entire unit in the door. This takes only a few seconds because all you do is insert two long bolts from the plate that goes on the inside part of the door through to the plate that goes on the outside and then tighten them up. It takes longer to describe than to do. I wiped everything clean, turned the thumbscrew, wiped off the inside knob with my handkerchief, and pulled the door shut.

  I tried it just to be sure, and it was locked as tightly as when I had arrived. I wiped off the outside parts of the lock, picked up the broken lock parts and tools, and returned to the car. All of this had taken less than three minutes.

  The homeowners now had a new lockset identical in appearance to the one I had smashed. Even their old keys would fit. I figured they might wonder why the alarm went off, but false alarms are triggered every day. Maybe they would put it down to a surge in the power source and forget about it. And nothing was missing, so why worry?

  I had been on Sunset for about two blocks and was driving along in a leisurely fashion when I saw a police car with its lights flashing start up the hill. I headed back down Sepulveda. About halfway to the airport, there was a forlorn looking strip mall with a nail salon, a discount clothing store, a cell phone dealer, a doughnut shop, and several vacant spaces. I drove around back, wiped down all my new hardware and the broken lock parts and threw it all into their dumpster.

  I had some time to kill, so I consulted the map and drove to Venice. I discovered that it actually does have canals like its eponymous sister in Italy.

  It also had a guy playing guitar on roller skates, a panhandler advertising himself as “The Worlds Greatest Wino,” street dancers, comedians, jugglers, weightlifters, skaters, preachers, artists, scantily clad women and even more scantily clad men. And New Mexicans think Santa Fe is weird!

  It was a depressing combination of hyperactivity and forced gaiety, the buskers pretending they like the tourists, and the tourists pretending they liked being there. I understood the phrase, ‘alone in a crowd’.

  I left the boardwalk and walked down to the beach. I’d never seen an ocean in person, so I decided I might as well have a look. Of course I had seen a lot of beaches in movies and magazines. I’d never understood the appeal. After seeing the one at Venice, I understood the appeal even less. The sand was just like the sand in New Mexico—gritty. The water was too cold for swimming. The view was boring, water as far as the eye could see. I wanted to go home.

  The flight out was the first time I’d ever been in a commercial plane. A friend of my parents who was a pilot at Sandia Air Force base had once taken me up in a T-28, and I got airsick. Fortunately, the commercial plane ride to LAX had been smooth. And of course the pilot had not done the loops and barrel rolls that the Air Force pilot had executed for my entertainment.

  I suspected the afternoon desert wind would have begun before the return flight, and it might not be so smooth, so after returning the car and catching the shuttle back to the terminal, I went to the bar to fortify myself for the flight home. In a truly upscale bar—and I don’t know of many these days—you can specify how you want your drink prepared and be assured it will happen as you direct. Airport bars don’t fit in that category, so a margarita was out. So was champagne since they had only one brand on offer, something fermented in bulk and then bottled. I won’t mention the brand, but it is a common given name for French men and rhymes with ashtray, which, come to think of it, is appropriate.

  I ordered a double Jim Beam on the rocks and retired to a corner table to sip and to review what I had just done. After being falsely accused by Susannah on several occasions, I had finally done it; I had broken into a house. I had not broken into the Valle del Rio Museum even though I admit I gained entrance by subterfuge. I had not broken into Berdal’s apartment the first time even though I admit I did pose as a prospective renter. And I hadn’t broken in the second time either—although I was trying to—because Susannah herself had kicked the door open. But no one had been with me today. I had not tricked anyone. I had plainly and simply without any delusion or assistance broken into a house. I was now a burglar.

  But wait! I wasn’t really a burglar because I hadn’t stolen anything. That made me feel better. That and the second double bourbon.

  I thought about the cactus scent and green-plant overtones of tequila and how it resonates with the desert. I didn’t know what resonates with California. Wine, I guess, but I don’t like wine except when it has bubbles.

  But the bourbon was right for the moment. The woodsy smell and smoky flavor comforted me like a familiar jacket on a cold night. So I had a third. Or was it a sixth? They were doubles after all.

  Whatever the number was, I could have purchased an entire bottle back in New Mexico for less. But I wasn’t in New Mexico, and I was about to get on a plane where the seats are uncomfortable even if you’re only five-six, and I needed fortification.

  I was almost airsick as we bounced and lurched through the sky. I made a mental note never to fly again, but even as I made it, I knew it was like those New Year resolutions. What choice is there? If you ever have to reach some distant location like California, you could spend ten hours behind the wheel, or you could go by bus which is even worse because it’
s also ten hours but you’re crowded up with strangers and have no control over where or when to stop. Or you could take a train, which, if you must travel, is the most civilized way to go. You can walk around the train, visit the bar car, have a meal at a table in the dining car, even have your own compartment if you wish. But when I checked on an Amtrak ticket, it seemed from the price they quoted that they wanted to sell me the compartment rather than just renting it to me overnight, so here I was— sick, scared, and slightly drunk.

  I had broken into a house, taken nothing, and left two things, but it was for a good cause. In a way, I was sad. But in another way, I was happy. But that’s the way life is, isn’t it?

  58

  I got back before five, but I was in no shape to meet Susannah for drinks, soI called and left a message that I couldn’t make it. I fixed myself a deluxe

  tapatia, a fried corn tortilla topped with refried beans, diced tomatoes, sliced jalapeños, shredded cheese, and fresh cilantro. Sort of like a giant nacho. Despite the bourbon and the bumpy flight, I decided to risk a cold beer. It seemed to have a medicinal effect.

  The weather had turned warmer, so I climbed into my hammock to rest. I fell asleep and awoke around midnight to the smell of damp chamisa and the feel of light cool rain on my face. I stumbled inside and slept for another eight hours. After my usual shower and my usual breakfast, I was ready for my meeting with Kaylee and Arturo.

  I asked Arturo to wait in the shop and tell me if any customers came in. I took Kaylee back to my living quarters.

  “Is there anything you want to tell me about your former life in Texas?” I asked her.

  “No.”

  “You’re not a fugitive from justice? The police aren’t looking for you?”

  “No.”

  “How about someone who’s not a policeman? A former boyfriend, a parent, a social worker or parole officer.”

  “Hubert, I’m not a criminal.”

  “O.K., what are you?”