Got wasted again. Ridiculous hangover. Eyes opened. 4:30am. I closed my eyes and exhaled. Streaks of light and static danced across my eyelids in some sort of visual aura. My breath? awful. Dry mouth, cakes of garbage in each corner. I can still remember...

one hour to the job site. Out the truck and on the roof in 93 seconds. first, tear off old shingles. nails. tar paper. turn it to garbage. fill the dumpster. faster. work faster. destroy 1 square every 3 minutes. Second pass, fragments and tar paper. sun rising. i guess that is east. Third pass, drive leftover nails flat into the plywood. clean slate. good foundation. 7:15am rolls of tar paper. Set, square, roll, tack. set, square roll tack. tack cut roll, cut rolls of tar paper. Set, square, roll, tack. set, square roll tack. tack cut roll, cut tack roll. tack roll.

Done. 8:24am. Warm Water. SUN. so much of it. barking. knee pads and boots. dogs. work. nails. faster. shingles. place, tack, place, tack, square. overlap, tack, place. place tack tack tack. place. tack. nail gun jam. fix, tack.

sounds: SNAP. air compressor. scrape. rustling tree limbs (wind). SNAP-SNAP-SNAP(three hits per shingle 50 shingles in a square. 45 square roof.) EQUALS: SNAP * 6,750 + 12 misfires per square (Standard deviation 4) 500 nails per clip pause to reload then SNAP-SNAP-SNAP scrap SNAP-SNAP-SNAP scrape. Edges mean cut shingle typically 2 nails straight cut. if less than 1/8 shingle then trash else pile. Barking(see above)

Lunch break. 17 oz Cool Coffee. Sugar, non-dairy creamer. Pork Rinds and Funons.

Ladder (14 rungs) roof. SNAP-SNAP-SNAP etc.

Blank.

Thinking stopped.

this life.

A truck idled in the driveway. 1:09pm. 9 Squares to go. SNAP-SNAP-SNAP scrape. The driver talked on speaker phone. We called him boss even if he wasn't. formalities don't matter. Roofers. We start early. We drink from the hose and generally don't bother. Stats on this crew: 67% are less than 8 months out of prison. Median age - 24.5 years. 93% drink. 23% illegal. One animal. Meth-amphetamines? weed? heroin? cocaine? Yes. The driver in the truck was mouthing words into his phone. I saw him as I stood on the roof's edge. I was dizzy with heat and shaking for something to drink and I waved and swayed.

He rolled his window down and yelled, "Ese. Come down here, por favor."

So, I did. 14 rungs down the ladder and I walked in the shade and stood on his passenger side (shade) and his window came down and cool air (smelled of tobacco and cool water or maybe drakkar noir or mabye Polo. I'm not sure.) rushed from the cab and twisted into the shade's heat which further twisted into the sun's heat. Cycle, repeat.

"How's it going up there, chief?" he said. "Are you going to finish today?"

"Yes, sir. The underlayment was in good shape and we didn't find any leaks. We will be done by three or four at the latest." I said.

He tilted his head, just a bit, "well then, ok. how is the crew today?"

"We're doing very well, thank you. Pablo's back is healing nicely. I think he'll be 100% in a week or two."

"That was a nasty fall, wasn't it?" he said.

"Yes." I said.

He paused, just for a bit and then said, "Do you mind if I ask you a question?"

"Go ahead."

"I don't know how to ask this, but you don't sound like you're Mexican. How is your accent so good?"

"I'm from Madison. Adopted when I was a baby. My parents are white as can be." I said.

"That explains a lot. What are you doing out here working on roofs, then?" he asked.

"I found my biological parents a few years ago in Mexico and I have a brother. He needs money to go to school, so I'm out here working and sending the money home to him. A couple of the guys on this crew know my real family."

"Wow. Good story. I bet you could write a pretty good book." he said.

"Yeah, a book." I said.

He handed me an envelope. "Here's tomorrow's job. Take care."

"You too."

The man put his truck in reverse and backed down the driveway. 14 rungs and I was on the roof. 1:19pm. 9 squares to go. SNAP-SNAP-SNAP. A book. SNAP-SNAP-SNAP-SCRAPE. I shouldn't have said Madison. SNAP-SNAP-SNAP. Book. A cloud broke the sun. SNAP-BOOK-SNAP. My hangover was finally going aways. BOOK-SNAP-BOOK-SCRAPE. water. scrape. place. tack tack tack. scrape. place. tack book tack, etc.

Thinking stopped.

Almost.

A book.

What if?

I promised not to tell.

Why did I say Madison?

I could change the names.

It wouldn't have to be exact.

Why not?

Why can't I tell?

She was gone.

no one would read it

more write. less drink.

She was gone.

I couldn't get a job anywhere, anyway.

and, she was gone.

a book.

Why the hell not.

8 more squares to go...

He left and I worked the rest of the day. Now I'm here on a futon mattress spread on the floor, trying to sleep. My hands hurt. I hurt. I'm no where near sleep. I think:

I shouldn't have said Madison.

So, I get up. Our room is dark but the moon is out so I can see just well enough to pull on my jeans, find my glasses and hat, and get to the door without crashing into anything or stepping on anyone. Five of us share this room. It isn't a big deal if i wake anyone up but I don't want to hassle anyone and it'll be better when they realize I'm gone. They'll wonder when I left and I like that for some reason. It strikes me. Some sort of mystery. I guess. It is silly, i know, but I try. Always try. Pocket check: Wallet. Keys. Phone. Ear plugs. Rock.

Jacket on. Door open. I slip outside and slowly pull the door closed. I keep the door handle turned and release it slowly so the catch doesn't click. Slight squeak, but definitely nothing loud enough for anyone to care.

I walk.

Porch to steps to driveway to sidewalk to the corner. The crew shares a small apartment in a large complex. So many dumpsters. They don't even try to hide them. Cars are parked everywhere. Orderly, in spaces, but again, like the dumpsters. So many cars. Walking around this place alone at night makes my stomach sick and my balls tingle. I stop, turn around, and walk.

Corner to sidewalk to driveway to steps to porch. I'm back at the apartment where I open the door slowly, silently. I'm nervous, I guess. There isn't really a good way to say this, but I have to poop. So, I do. I brush my teeth slowly, shake the water off the toothbrush and put it in my pocket. Silently down the hall to the kitchen. I grab my phone charger and stuff it in my pocket. I climb on the counter to reach far behind the refrigerator and up in the crack between the cabinet and wall. My envelope. My savings. All the cash I have. Now I'm at the front door. I silence my phone and put it in airplane mode.

Again, door to porch to steps to driveway to sidewalk to the corner. The moon is higher in the sky. Fucking moon. Hanging there, looking over us with its fat, white, judging face. Coming as going as it pleases, cowering behind clouds in storms. It doesn't even make its own light. It just reflects. Whatever, fucking moon.

I guess I have a plan.

I'm not very good at sleeping which is why I take walks on so many nights. The subdivision next to the apartments is a big one whose houses were built in the sixties or seventies. They all have three bedrooms and a garage and are either a ranch or a 2 story. Some houses are set on the lot at 90 degrees which makes it almost seem like there are four different floor plans. There aren't. There are 172 ranch homes and 97 two-story. 212 are 100% siding. One is stucco. The rest have some brick but are mostly siding. 57 homes are on larger lots that allow for either a two car garage or 1 car garage plus a dining room. While walking around you can get a pretty good idea the builder wasn't up for giving the buyers too many options.

Over the years, people have added on porches, window treatments, landscaping, and decks but it's hard to get any sense of individuality in this _ neighborhood. The cynic in me says everyone inside these houses are exactly the same, but I know better.

The area around here is completely flat. There are no walk-out basements. However, some people put a basement door in their house by digging a hole, forming concrete stairs and adding a small drain. I like how flat it is because some nights I run. Runners seem to be less suspicious and I like that.

Tonight I'm headed to 5678 Pine Street whose porch light burned out late last month. I arrive and do a quick 360 to see if anyone is watching. No one. I sprint up to the side of the house next to the garage and sit up against the house.

Here, I wait. The woman who lives here tends to get home late and she's more into cats than dogs. It's just after midnight and she isn't home. So, I sit cross legged, or Indian style as they said in elementary school which gives me some fantods so I lie supine and then semi-supine parallel to the house; against the house.

A mosquito buzzes in my ear and my balls are tingling and my heart rate is up and i hear a truck and the garage door opens. Headlights flash on the neighbors house and disappear as her blue Ford Explorer rumbles and squeaks its way into the garage. I roll to my hands and knees and crawl quickly to the corner of her house. I peek around the corner and catch the taillight as her truck finishes going in. I follow it in on the passenger side staying low and moving quickly with my head up to watch the mirror making sure I'm not in it. She keeps hers pointed high so I'm in the clear. The truck stops and she clicks it into park and I roll underneath. The exhaust is 2" from my face and the heat from the catalytic converter is almost burning my left leg. The truck turns off and I hear her shuffling for her purse or bags or whatever. I don't care. I don't move.

The exhaust snaps and pops in my ear as it cools.

She steps out of her truck and slams the door. Not a very dainty girl, this one. She drags her left foot a bit. Her shoes clip, clop and slide 12 steps where she stops. She pulls open the door to her house, hits the garage door opener, shuts off the light and slams the door. She is gone but I can't tell 100% if she locked it behind her.

I slip from under the truck. I'm sweaty and my back is dusty and it is completely dark. I can't see anything and I have to be extremely careful not to make any noise. After all these years, I'm pretty good at it. I sit up and take off my t-shirt and pull out my phone. I use it as a flashlight as brush the dust off my shirt. There is no grease and that makes me happy. I double check my phone. It is still in airplane mode. I find a bare spot on the wall where I can lean and sit quietly and in the dark and sit and breathe.

And sit for an hour.

And sit for another hour.

I feel good. It is time so I get up and put on my shirt. This garage and the house is completely quiet. I am quiet, relaxed, clean and dry. I walk around the truck 16 steps to the door using my phone for a flashlight. With my hand around the knob I pause. I don't know if you've noticed, but pretty much every door knob has some play in it. A light click as the mechanism engages. So, I twist slowly and just a bit until it catches. I still haven't made a sound. This is good.

She didn't lock the door. That makes me happy. I twist the knob just enough to get the door to open and push slowly. It doesn't squeak. That makes me happy. I'm in her kitchen. The light is on over the sink. It looks dim like a single 40 watt light bulb covered in a dusty fixture that has been hanging in a kitchen for 25 years. The glass seems slightly browned, maybe. I imagine taking the damp dishrag that is hanging off the faucet, running some warm, soapy water in the sink while carefully dismantling this light fixture. I take it off the ceiling. Soak its parts for a while. I imagine myself and some soapy water scrubbing years of sticky off that light so it can glow a clean, white light again.

I look to the left. There's her purse. They always throw them down right by the door. In the purse: wallet, girl shit, and keys. That makes me happy. The litter box is next to the door. Fuck that. I slip her keys out of this ridiculously large, fake brown leather bag. Her key ring is equally ridiculous. So many keys and fucking picture frames and souvenirs and crap carabiners that couldn't support Kate Moss. It is hard to keep the mess quiet, but my hands are big. There is a course listing for some nights school sitting here. bent backward at the spine with blue ink pen circling the words, "Pre-Nursing Workshop," over and over again to where the paper was almost worn through.

I left the kitchen door open, I always do. I go through the doorway and I'm in the garage, again. Now that there's a little light, I notice a bike leaning against the wall. I need that. I close the door silently behind me. And use my phone as a flashlight, again. As quietly as I can, I put the bike in the truck. I slip the truck key off the ring and carefully set the mess of keys and rings et al. on the ground for her. No need to hassle her any more than I already have. I walk around and open the driver's door, quickly shutting off the dome light.

I'm standing on the door sill, now. I can reach the garage door opener's manual release from here so I pull it slowly and it pops a little louder than they usually do. I'm out of the truck now and at the garage door.

There's no question about it. Garage doors are fucking loud. There's pretty much no way to open one without making noise. The trick here is to go slow. Think you're going slow? Go slower. However, we're facing the street so we should be moving as fast as possible. I don't want to be hanging out where any car driving by can see me so I'm hoping no one drives by.

No one does.

I'm back in the truck.

Door closed.

Key on.

Neutral.

Key off... Well, no. Duh. you can't turn the key off in an automatic unless it is in park. I can't open the door with they key in the ignition without the warning chime banging to let everyone know I'm there.

Fuck.

Window down. Truck in park. Key off.

I get out. I reach in the window to turn the key on. Now, a big stretch to get it in neutral. Son of a bitch. You can't put a car in neutral without a foot on the brake.

I'm out of practice.

The garage door is hanging open, I'm futzing around like an idiot. I'm stealing a truck. Every time I put it in park or neutral I hit the brakes. That means the brake lights are flashing through the open garage door like beacons. Nice. I look around. There's a piece of 2x4 that's about 4' long. I lift the front bumper (and the truck) as much as I can and wedge the wood underneath. I grab a lawn furniture cushion and put it underneath.

That'll work.

I'm back in the truck. Key on. Foot on brake. Neutral. Foot off the brake. I bounce backward against the seat like a little kid trying to get the shopping cart to roll and it goes. The truck is moving. Fuck this flat-assed subdivision. The 2x4 hit squarely on the cushion. Not a sound.

Half way down the driveway I open the door. The chime is going nuts, but I should be good now. I hop out and start pushing. Down the driveway, on to the street, a left turn and I'm in front of the neighbor's house. I start the truck, throw it in drive and go. I'm confident she didn't wake up. No one usually notices until the morning, anyway, and no one saw me. Poor girl.

I'm driving 2 mph above the speed limit. Stopping at stop signs, but not lagging. Right on red? Why not, but only after coming to a complete stop. I worry about traffic cameras and anything else that may catch my face. Cameras are everywhere and I know there are three for every one I notice. Stores, businesses, Department of Transportation… Whatever. I stop to tell myself that this is a stolen car, not a murder but I am still very careful.

What's the next thing on the agenda? Find another Ford Explorer with the same body style as this one.

I drive through neighborhoods. I choose subdivisions that are dense with cars and have small houses that are close together and maybe a little ratty. You always try to steal a common car so you can do this:

I spot a red Ford Explorer that looks a lot like the one I'm in. I park one street over where there are no lights. I slip out, unscrew the license plates from my truck and hop fences and run until i'm underneath the red truck. I lie underneath because no one driving by notices someone under a car. They do, however, notice some Mexican guy hunched over behind a car stealing its plates. No one drives by, tonight. I have the red truck's plates in my hand. My trucks are in their place. I roll from under the truck, run, and hop more fences until I'm at my truck. I put the plates on and drive off.

Now I'm on the highway. 62 mph in a 60. I don't know of one person who has noticed their license plates got swapped until they get pulled over and are on the ground getting cuffed for driving a stolen car. That means I'm driving a truck with plates that are completely legit and probably will be for at least a few days. My odds are better, now. I'm finally relaxed and I'm guessing this thing holds about 20 gallons of gas. The gauge reads 3/4 of a tank. These things probably get about 16 mpg. That's 240 miles. The black sky is lightening up a bit. 240 miles is plenty.

I'll make it.

and suddenly, I am here.

I drive up a long gravel driveway, slowly. The day has broken but the fog is still here and the gravel pops and snaps and pings against the bottom of this girl's truck. The driveway is flanked by scrawny woods filled with invasive species that are choking out the cedars and elms. I get to the patch of Paper Birch (Betula papyrifera) and now I'm back being a kid coming up here for the week and using the birch as a landmark. The birches meant we were here after that brutal, eleven hour drive. The woods quickly end and now I'm driving up to the white wood siding house that sits alone in an open field. The house is in good repair, but it could use some paint, a little landscaping, and new shingles. It is a two story farmhouse that looks as if it was missing its wood shutters and a porch, even thought it never had either. I always thought a wrap-around porch with a screened-in area out back would suit the house perfectly. Instead, there is a simple, blue door at ground-level and six plain white windows with a worn out grey roof and mildew and a wasps nest under the single bulb light that hung over the door.

I keep driving.

A sharp right turn through a grown-in entrance to the woods. Downhill. Switching left and right until I'm at the gigantic pole barn that sits low and flat nuzzled in these trees like it grew along with them. Or, maybe like it pushed its way here, invading the trees' space like kudzu and honeysuckle. I put the truck in park, turn it off, and get out. The air is thick and cool, sun is heating tree tops and the barn's dark, moldy roof. I stretch and realize I'm hungry, now. Just like that, you get in a place and can suddenly feel again. I start remembering, too:

I've played a little game since I was a kid. I like to look at people. People on the street. People sitting in the subway. Saleswomen pushing cheap furniture. Tired men cleaning toilets. I like to look at them and try to understand what they see when they close their eyes. I imagine all the places they go. I pretend to know all the things in their head they see when they're all alone.

I have a plan. I will go up to that farm house, open some sort of canned food, sit at that old computer and show you exactly what happens when I close my eyes.

This is what I see.

This is to a girl.

Madison.

I was about 7 years old and walking down the hallway toward the kitchen. There was nothing particularly exciting or different about the day, but I remember it like a snapshot. Mom and dad were in the kitchen, having breakfast and a smoke. Dad was saying something about some asshole on his paper route and mom was laughing. They really did get along well, cute couple, actually. Dad was working all the time, then. It was before the business really took off and he still had his paper route. I kind of remember him doing something with scrap metal and that was when he just started with the repo guys. I was young, so I don't know many of the details. He was just gone, a lot.

Mom was pretty awesome. She was still a nurse, working long shifts but only a few days a week. Summer meant a few solid days at grandma's, then a few days with Moms all to myself. She really was pretty awesome. Funny, kind, etc.

Dad, on the other hand, was something out of a twisted fairytale. He was kind and generous but, without notice, he could strike fear in anyone. Not necessarily large, or menacing, but with his blank, shining eyes i think he managed to hit people with surprise and almost some sort of awe.

"Kate, how about you get to work early, I'll clean everything up and put the kid (he always called me, the kid I loved it) on the bus," he said to my mom. She was just as shocked as me which is probably why she agreed. She finished her toast, grabbed her purse, "you have a good day at school, honey." She patted me on the head and was out the door.

I slurped the milk out of my cereal bowl and took it to the sink. Dad was still sitting there, silent, but looking at me. I remember it clearly, the first time I was a little weirded out by someone, with the staring and all. I went for my back pack and he spoke up, "You put that down and come back to the table."

"But, dad, I'm going to be late."

"You're not going to catch that bus, kid, I have something to show you."

Like I said, weird. He went on:

Someday you'll be a man, he said, and men can do terrible things. I don't want that for you. You're better than that. But, you've got to know that there are things you can do. Things you need to be able to do that are going to help you live. Really live, kid.

"what?" i said.

Don't worry about it, someday it will all make sense. but now you just got to listen. There are places they don't want you to go, things they don't want you to see, so they put things in place to keep you out. Locks, kid. you know about locks, don't you?

"yeah" I said.

Locks don't do shit, kid. They're only there to make people think they can't get to the things they want. But, you know what kid?

"what?" I said.

Locks don't. do. shit. and I'm going to show you what I mean today. You're going to be late to school. Don't tell you mother. Can you do that for me?

"what?" I asked.

Can you not. Tell. Your. Mom. that you were late to school?

"yes." I said. I understood.

Good, kid. Now, what did I say a second ago?

"I don't know." I said, because I didn't. this was weird. He said:

Men. They can do terrible things. Here, what I'm about to show you can be bad. You have to promise me you'll be good. Do you know what that means?

"Yes," I said.

Good, do you know anything about the 'thou shalt not..' like though shalt not kill. you know what that means?

"yes." i answered.

Good, i'm going to change one that you might have heard before. It goes like this, 'though shalt not steal when there is a direct victim.' and what that means is you can't steal anything from anyone. Do you understand?

"yes, don't steal. I know that, dad." I said.

Good, but, there's a change there. 'Thou shalt (shalt, yes, he said shalt) not steal when there is a direct victim' and what that means, kid, is you can't steal from someone who's going to hurt because of what you did. Don't steal someone's food when they're hungry. Don't steal someone's jacket. Does that make sense?

"Sure, dad." I said.

Good, but you know what you can steal?

"what?" I asked.

You can take something that doesn't belong to you if it is out there and no one is going to get hurt. Does that make sense?

"Not really," I said.

Ok, well, we'll talk about this some more later. But, we don't have much time so let's get started.

He had an old door knob in his lap the whole time. He put it on the table and said, "go out in the garage and get a couple screwdrivers." And I did, and he taught me all about how keys and locks work. We took that thing apart, I learned everything I needed to know that morning about tumblers, lock cylinders, pins, and keys. I learned how to take apart a door knob. How to take apart a lock. How to put it back together. And, most importantly, how to lock bump. Crazy thing was, as a seven year old, I somehow had a particular knack for it. I was good at it. Dad was surprised and I could tell, proud. I liked that.

What is lock bumping? it's simple, really. You take a normal key, like a house key, and file it down just so. You put the key in the lock, but not all the way. You put light pressure on the key as if you're going to turn it and then you "bump" it into the lock. That's it. Like magic, the key turns and you're in the door. It works in pretty much every kind of key lock out there.

Dad said, "Kid, locks don't mean anything to you and me. We can go anywhere we want any time. Normal people can't, kid. But you and me? we're not them. we're different. but you have to remember. you have to use this for good, kid. don't tell anyone you know how to do this. don't get into trouble with this. it's too easy. take the high road and you and me, we'll stick together. you, kid, will ride by my side until the day i die. And, I will ride by your side until the day you lie. Thout shalt not steal when there is a direct victim.

I didn't know what that meant, at all. He took me to school and dropped me off at the office and talked to the secretary and it was still recess so I said goodbye and they let me go outside for the last 3 minutes until the bell rang.

I finished a mason jar of cold green beans and hit save. I left the old farmhouse and walked South to the clearing. The old airstrip is still here, but it is going to need some work. I walk to the hangar at the far end of the property, further South, and accessible from another road. I think he built it there so he could truck fuel in late at night using roads that didn't pass homes.

Another low, metal pole barn, this one was built to store small planes rather than hide stolen cars. It's wide sliding doors were overgrown with ivy and the lone, human-sized door was tucked in the corner. It accepted credit-cards just as dad intended. I go in.

The roof is covered in corrugated plastic translucent green roof panels which give the whole building and everything in it a sickening glow. The fuel tanks are under ground to save room, but there isn't much left in this old building anymore. The tractor is still here, and the brush hog looks like it will work just fine. (I hope there's enough diesel.) I walk around a little bit. It's a shame how this place got cleaned out. There was so much neat stuff to look at back when I was a kid, then later things that would save her when I was frantically searching for parts in the dark.

I find some tall stakes leaning in a corner and then a pile of red shop rags next to the workbench. I spend some time tying rags to stakes then I go outside. Dad installed lights on this old farm airfield when his business really started taking off (couldn't help that one.) So, i go out and try to stake every single one of them. I don't have nearly enough stakes, but I do have enough to mark enough lights that make up half-day's mowing area, so, that'll do. I walk outside and the sun is bright and the day is getting hot and the green and gold field of hay is alive with bugs and breeze and birds and who knows what else is out here.

I get to work.

The grass is thick and green with patches brown like straw. It catches the toe of my boot and I stumble as I search for the first runway light. They don't seem to be where I remembered and I keep going until I finally kick one in a spot that doesn't seem like the right place for a runway light. The grass is thick around the light's oxidized metal cage that surrounds the light blue glass lens. It looks like something you might see hanging from the ceiling of a mine shaft, but bigger and pointing up. The stake (with red flag) slides easily between the metal and glass and wedges in just so.

Perfect.

I stand up straight and try to visualize a straight line down the runway. Next light should be about 10 meters down the line. So, I walk. The sweat is thin and cold on my neck in this breeze and I pull off my shirt to feel the sun. I notice there's a lot less of me than there used to be. And, what is there is tight. Ripped, almost. Not strong, exactly, but it is like my body fat is gone and I'm lean. My belt is two holes tighter than it has ever been and I feel like I can work ten times as hard and still be fine. Pollen and particles from the field floating through the air like flotsam stick to my skin as I walk and I am dirty and I am loving it.

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about

I'm no writer, but I write a lot. This is a rough draft. It should change every day (yeahrite.)