You thought about leaving the stone. But then you remembered Mary Ashford and Sarah Miller, decided to save the guy from becoming another sucker.
You hit the streets, the ring secure in your CamelBak.
Back home, the jewelry went into the swag box. You couldn’t sleep, reviewing your plunder, tiny pieces of other lives.
B & E’s became everything.
One a week at first. Monday through Thursday was casual jog recon. Weekends were break-ins.
Jewels reigned supreme. They spent time close to other people, had sentimental value.
You’d take cash when discovered, but never credit cards.
Once a week quickly became “whenever the coast looked clear.” Your record was three break-ins in one night.
You wore thin white runner’s gloves, hoping they’d prevent prints.
You carried steak-flavored dog treats but never had the guts to break into a house after you’d heard a dog bark. You petted cats when they’d allow it.
If a whole pack of cigarettes was left out you’d take one smoke, save it for the morning, puff on it at sunrise.
Sometimes you went to hip hop shows before your evening run. It was easy to stay chill, enjoy a show solo, hood up, feeling like an anonymous gangster amidst all the fronting. They could talk up the criminal life; you lived it.
You tried to maintain the morning runs with Uncle Joshua. He noticed your owl eyes and lagging pace.
He expressed concern.
You dropped the routine. The nights were just too long.
It was in this state—harried, junkie-hungry for break-ins—that you let love back into your life.
Slow it down. Pay attention. This is where everything fell apart.
You were coming home via Burnside that night, maneuvering around the bum-clusters near the bridge. An alky with a piece of corn in his beard gave you a wave.
You were astronaut high from a twenty minute break-in session. The entire house had smelled like summer lilac. You’d wondered if the owners paid to have that piped in at all hours.
That sweet smell is what you were thinking about at the moment the little black car took a no-look right turn at 10th and Burnside past Union Jack’s. You saw a bright flash out of your peripheral, heard a thump that you ID’d as your body hitting the hood of the ride. Then you were rolling on pavement.
Brake lights made the scene run red. You caught the model of the car . . . couldn’t focus on the license plate.
Last-call closeout-boozers were a night run liability. You’d accepted that, but you couldn’t accept the fact that you might have been slaughtered by a fucking Jetta with a butterfly sticker on the bumper.
Gorgeous legs in camouflage stockings emerged from the driver’s side. The girl stood, giraffe-tall. Five inch heels. Soon she was crouched by your side. You couldn’t focus on her face aside from wide hazel eyes, tiny flecks of gold floating in the green.
You sap—you might have been in love before you even lost consciousness.
She danced under the name Avarice. When she told a guy he could call her Ava it guaranteed extra tips. When boys pointed out the fitting nature of her name she called them clever. That pulled more tips, too.
She was insanely irresponsible, taking you to her apartment instead of a hospital, but her license was already suspended for another offense. Ava had bugged at the idea of real jail time and was strong enough to get you into her back seat, then her first floor apartment. She watched you sleep on her couch. You kept breathing. She gave you an ice compress for your head. You asked for Advil; she came back with two Valium and a Xanax, delivered by slender hands, chipped black polish on the fingernails.
She asked why you were out running so late. You told her you worked a day job and preferred to run when it was cooler out. She asked what you did. You said roofing. Seemed tough.
She asked you running questions, caught your excitement about the topic, used it. You could see her game—ingratiate until she knew charges would be dropped—but you didn’t want to stop playing. You liked the way she was tending to you. It stirred something you hadn’t felt in years.
Plus, she was easy on the eyes. Heart-shaped pale face framed with short black hair. Decent lips made more charming by a crooked smile. Legs that seemed to be two thirds of her frame. She wore grey shorts with pink trim piping, a thin green cotton t-shirt that showed off the curves on each side of her small breasts.
You knew most men didn’t get to see her like this—casual, relaxed and gracious. She knew you knew and rode the vibe. She showed you her tattoos—two thin stripes, one running up the back of each leg, meant to mimic the back seam of a pair of pin-up stockings. As she got closer you saw that each seam was actually composed of delicate cursive words.
She bent forward, touched her toes so you could see the entirety of each line.
The right leg said: . . . I asked him with my eyes to ask again yes and then he asked me would I yes to say yes my mountain flower and first I put my arms around him
The left leg continued: yes and drew him down to me so he could feel my breasts all perfume yes and his heart was going like mad and yes I said yes I will Yes.
“It’s from Ulysses,” she said.
She admitted that every time she read that last chapter she felt like “rubbing one out.” She made a circling motion in the sky with her index finger and closed her eyes. Then she smiled, full blaze.
You were ready to die for this girl, and she hadn’t even kissed you.
Your concussion was minor. More disconcerting was the new gimpy sensation in your right leg. When you tried to run the iliotibial band next to your knee registered tight, white-hot pain.
You had to drop running for a week. Better to let it rest than blow it out.
Ava was an Olympic-level tease. When she dropped you off at your Uncle’s house she leaned in close, said she wanted to look at your pupils. Be sure you didn’t have any brain damage. She locked you in at the eyes. Her lips floated a hair’s-breadth from yours, the heat from her face mixing nicely with your Valium/brain damage buzz.
She whispered in your ear, “I think you’ll be just fine.” Then she told you what nights she worked at which clubs.
She didn’t seem surprised that you were there every night. You dipped into the box in your closet, swapped jewels for cash at pawn shops, loved spending ill-gotten gains on Ava.
You bought every lap dance you reasonably could. When anyone else got too close to her they looked like Mikey Vinson.
You turned creepazoid one night, crawled her apartment when you knew she was at the beginning of her dance shifts at Sassy’s. You were pro at climbing in through windows. Summer heat had everyone’s open. Seemed she barely lived there aside from her disheveled futon and the explosion of clothes scattered throughout. You threw two pairs of her underwear in your CamelBak, rushed home for an epic stroke-fest. You tied her lacy yellow G-string around the base of your cock, huffed the blue cotton pair, and pounded yourself into exhaustion. You never ran short on fantasies—your favorites involved her sneaking into houses with you, violating every room.
If it wasn’t obsession, it was pretty damn close.
Things seemed fine, spectacular really, until the night she invited you over for coffee at her place. You accepted, secretly ecstatic, but caught the heebie-jeebies when you noticed she wasn’t talking to you on the way, kept looking over her shoulder.
At her apartment she brought you into the loop—She liked you, more than she expected. But she already had a man, on the low, and he was insanely jealous, sometimes to the point where he got rough. She didn’t know how to leave him. She didn’t want to endanger you. The guy never came down to her clubs, but his friends sometimes did. They’d noticed you. How could they not?
You puffed up your chest. “Who is this guy?”
“Have you ever heard of Stump Lo?”
Shit. You had. You un-puffed your chest.
Stump Lo was a Portland rapper who’d been struggling for year
s to pimp his pseudo-Cali-gangster-style hip hop to an audience more interested in commercial hits or backpacker rap. He was the dude you sat through while you waited for the good rappers to come on—tolerated but not loved. You could feel his resentment on stage.
Word was he’d shifted to coke sales a year or two back—he wanted the cred and his album sales weren’t churning out the royalties—and had worked his way to the upper echelon of Snortland suppliers.
This moment is when you should’ve jumped ship.
Instead you looked into Ava’s eyes and decided to tell her about your hobbies. It was the best sales pitch available, to offer an alternative bad-ass, one who wouldn’t trap her in jealousy.
You told her you weren’t a roofer, you were a fucking roughneck criminal. At the top of your game you were Portland’s best cat burglar.
You also broke your code and exploited your parents’ death, saying you’d even had to see their bodies. You told her you hadn’t felt fear since that day. If she didn’t want to stay with Stump she could roll with you.
You escalated your bravado with each detail. Her eyes sparked.
She wanted to hear more about your break-ins. You told her about all but one of them.
She loved your runner’s scheme for evading the law.
She leaned over, put her hand on your face. Said she had an amazing idea.
You were all ears, you sorry Rescue Ronnie Captain Save-a-Ho motherfucker.
You sold the rest of your stolen swag, a whole day of pawn shop hustling.
You liquidated your trust, cashed out your swollen checking account.
Ava found a great place in the Caymans online.
You’d miss your Uncle, but had no other ties and figured that Ava’s legs around your back could ease any pain.
Ava told you she’d already bought tickets.
She confirmed she’d found a buyer for Friday night—she knew dealers who liked to show off their cash in the clubs. Now it was just a matter of acquiring the blow.
Stump Lo was going to open a show for Keak da Sneak that night. A small opening, maybe a few hours, but after your score all that remained was a shot up I-5 to meet Ava’s connection. Then on to PDX and paradise.
You met up with Ava after her shift on Wednesday night. You wanted her to have your best diamond ring, from your first break-in. You couldn’t bring yourself to hock it. You waited near her car, not wanting to risk any of Stump Lo’s friends seeing you inside.
She ate it up. Even got a little teary-eyed. She put her hands on your hips, pressed her cheek against yours and said, quietly, “I think I might be falling in love with you.”
She smelled like sweat, cigarettes, too much perfume. You loved it. You wanted to kiss her but she was gesturing you towards her car. You got in, thinking she couldn’t contain her need anymore. You’d fuck right there in the lot . . .
Instead she wanted to review details for Friday. She would drop by Stump’s place before the show, wishing him luck. She would make sure that his Rottweiler—named Scarface, of course—was kenneled. You’d watch for Stump to leave. Once he did you’d run around back and disconnect the A/C unit running into his office. That’s your access point. After that it was simple—grab the coke/get out. Then a quarter mile jog to your meeting point. You’d roll in her car, make your sale, then get into costume for the airport.
She’d been inspired by your adventures in social camouflage, figured it could work to her advantage too. You’d enter PDX as proud parents-to-be. Her prosthetic belly-bump and draping maternity gear would conceal your collected cash nest egg as well as half a brick.
You questioned the wisdom of bringing drugs. Carrying serious cash was already suspect. The coke made the trip trafficking. Why risk it?
“The US dollar is on the decline. Coke is universal tender. We can turn it into money, connections, favors. I’ve never seen a pregnant chick getting searched at the airport. Have you?”
You hadn’t.
“And now, with this rock on my finger, we’ll look like we’re engaged. It’s perfect.”
You considered proposing. Make it real, right then. But it might spook her, and you knew better times were coming. Wouldn’t it be cooler to propose at sunset, in the sand, with a buzz kicking from some tropical cocktail?
Besides, you hadn’t even kissed yet. For all you knew, though you tried to exterminate the thought, she might still be fucking Stump Lo. But if she was it was just to perfect her cover, keeping things smooth until you could begin your life together, right? You squashed the thoughts.
She pinned you down with her eyes.
“Are you ready for Friday night?”
The version of yourself that you were selling could answer only Yes.
Getting in was simple. You saw those window-mounted A/C units as “Open House” signs. You’d brought your LifeHammer as back-up, but all you’d needed to access Stump’s residence was a small screwdriver and the ability to disconnect a plug.
You were halfway up the stairs to the guest bathroom where the stash was supposed to be hidden, feeling like the air had been replaced with a Dexedrine mist. Your mouth was dry, your face a sheet of sweat.
You noticed a drop of perspiration fall from the tip of your nose to the carpeted stair underfoot, and wondered if it could pop up as evidence.
You were bent over using your runner’s glove to swab up the droplet when Scarface caught your left calf in his jaws.
At first you thought it was a severe cramp. Maybe you’d been favoring your left leg to protect your fragile right and the imbalance caught up with you.
Even when you heard the growl and felt teeth sinking in you couldn’t quite believe it. After all, you’d received Ava’s text: DG KNNLD, STMP LVG 1 HR.
What neither of you’d considered was that Stump might extract Scarface prior to leaving.
Call it an oversight.
An oversight that was quickly turning your left leg into shredded meat.
You collapsed forward on the staircase. Scarface dug in deeper, swung his head.
Agony.
You’d stopped thinking. You tried to kick out at him with your other foot but couldn’t land more than a glancing blow. You wished you’d started running in steel-shanked boots instead of sneaks.
You tried to say, “Good doggy let go doggy” but when you opened your mouth to assuage, all that came out was, “AAAAAAA! SHITSHITSHIT! JESUS!” It riled him; he clamped deeper.
You found the beefy treats you always carried in your pocket for just such an occasion. You tried to extend your arms backwards with the snacks so Scarface could catch the scent.
No interest. So you did your best to wing the snacks at him.
A yelp! Sweet mother of mercy—his jaws cut loose for a second. You rotated, braced for further assaults.
Scarface was pawing at the right side of his face, whining. One of the stale old snacks must have clipped him dead in the eye.
For one tiny moment you felt bad for him. Then his head dropped below his shoulders. He was about to pounce again. You kicked out in desperation, eyes closed. . . .
Both of your feet made contact.
Scarface thumped to the bottom of the staircase, laid out.
Shit! You felt terrible—instantly cursed. Steal a man’s coke and his girl and he might move on with his life. But kill his dog? He’d probably hunt you to the ends of the Earth.
Without thinking you were limping back down the stairs, towards the dog, to see if you’d actually killed it. Then you heard a low growl.
Scarface popped up in full bristle, teeth bared, bloody.
Your blood. It took a second to recognize that.
You leapt up the stairs, four at a time. You had to lean more weight on your right. The tightness there turned to razor-wire. Then you were in the upper hallway and bounding, trying to remember what she’d said.
Third door on the left. Guest bathroom.
You collapsed into the third room, no longer caring if it was the bathroom, j
ust wanting to kick the door closed. Shut out the beast.
You heard the door click shut and pressed your right foot against the wood, bracing it.
You could tell he was out there, hear him gnawing at the door with the side of his mouth. You reached up, locked the door. Gnashing turned to barking, guttural eruptions.
You worried about the neighbors being alerted but remembered what Ava told you—the whole joint was soundproofed since they used to get complaints about the studio bumping beats at all hours.
You flipped the light switch and caught yourself in the mirror. Bloody. Shaking. In track gear. The image ran ugly.
But at least you’d landed in the bathroom.
You were glad the mirror had to come down—seeing yourself in that moment brought in a rush of feelings and questions that were better not contemplated. You grabbed each side of the frame, lifted up, and pulled it back off its mounting screws.
The hole in the drywall was there, as she’d described. You reached in and found the plastic loop, pulled it off the nail in the stud. The loop was attached to a vinyl cord. Your shoulders strained to reel in the compressed duffel bag at its far end.
Seeing the loot gave you new confidence. You’d found your grail—your princess was waiting for your return. You re-mounted the mirror, used a towel to clean your blood off the floor and then wrapped it around your leg to staunch further bleeding.
Scarface’s paws thumped against the door, nails scraping, not calming down. You scanned the bathroom for a weapon and found nothing that would allow you to confront the hound with confidence.
That left one point of exit—a small sliding window above the shower.
You slid the window open, popped the screen. You tied off the duffel bag to your CamelBak and used the vinyl cord to lower them to the ground.
The drop from the second floor was unfriendly no matter how you went about it. You managed to hang and exit feet first. Both legs felt equally savaged so you couldn’t pick one to bear the brunt of the fall. Instead you tried to let your legs collapse and shift your weight to the back so you could somersault out of it.
In Heaven, Everything Is Fine: Fiction Inspired by David Lynch Page 30
