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Worldwide Ace » Thieving Ways

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Thieving Ways

25 October, 2005 (10:23) | Dreams

I just awoke with my arms thrust upward, my right fist clenched and aching, and my face contorted into a rebus of anger, pain, and guilt. Perhaps I’m lucky I sleep alone, as anyone with me likely would’ve been afraid or in pain.

I had just moved into a dorm apartment on the fourteenth floor of some spire of collegiate bliss. Though most of my floormates had standard rooms, my apartment had two bedrooms, a kitchen, and a dining/living room, making it possible for the co-ed roommate I ended up with. Interestingly, my roommate was a former close friend whom I fucked up royally with.

As I exited my room to grab breakfast, my roomie’s door opened and she came out wrapped in a sheet looking disheveled. Fear and surprise emanated from her upon seeing me. It slowly dawned on me that someone was standing behind her in an equal state of undress. Quickly, I rolled my eyes and headed for the kitchen, silently wondering what sort of decision she had made: I doubt it’s a good idea to randomly snog some cock in the dorms. I wonder if she’s just trying to further prove how not interested in me she is? Maybe this is her way of rubbing in that she has someone and I don’t… Then again, he was rather attractive…

I slipped out the front door and headed towards the bulletin board containing security schedules. As I carefully searched, looking for openings where I could fill in that fit with my schedule, I noticed there was no work for several weeks. I silently cursed myself and glared at several of my friends signing up for open slots that they could work.

I spun on my heel and headed for my room, completely ignoring Steph, who was casually chatting with me as I bore into the calendar. As I entered my room, I stepped over the mass of broken glass, moved my bed and began vacuuming (this was, perhaps, the most random part of my dream, other than the violent scene in the solarium, which I honestly can’t remember how it fit in in the first place). Soon, I knew I had to get out of there.

The three of them (no, I don’t know who the third was. I think it might have been her mother) watched me sweep past them and out front door from their cozy seats at the breakfast table. I heard the television fade as I reached the stairwell and began to run down it.

My crappy car sat awaiting me like a king’s chariot long abandoned by its fearful servants. As I approached the door, I noticed it ajar. As I quickly took stock of the situation, I came to the conclusion that nothing was missing and went on my way. As I sped up and down cobblestone hills running errands to all corners of the city, I slowly wound my way back to a club I once worked at.

I pulled up at the shopping center around the corner from the club, parking in front of a small deli and a laundromat. I carefully checked each of my door making sure it was locked. As I entered the club, I wandered through the empty bar, past the ill-suited bouncer, and into the rear hallway. I thought: Why didn’t she ask who I was? It’s not as though I’ve been here for months. Perhaps I just look like I belong in production. Or maybe she doesn’t care right now. Who knows? I watched as a band began either loading or unloading its instruments. Before I could decide, I turned and headed for the courtyard.

The various latticed tables were rife with customers chowing on the finest bar cuisine one could find. I waded through the patio crowd, slowly making my way back towards the main room, having yet to see anyone I recognized.

“Hey,” I said to the bouncer as I wandered out. “How come you didn’t ask who I was?”

“You look like you belong.”

“I did some photography here a long time ago. It was only briefly.”

“Oh. Ok.” As soon as she finished her response, she turned back to her companion. I slipped out the front door and headed for the box office/merchandise room one door down.

As I came in, everyone I knew from the crew was carefully dismantling the store. As I glanced in the storage case beneath one of the glass displays, I noticed a pile of posters from various bands. Right on top was an autographed poster for The Very Hush Hush. Glancing through the pile I noticed several more. Glancing about, I snagged one, carefully folding it so as not to crease it.

Basementalism’s DJ Thought stood behind the counter as I approached. “What’s going on?” I asked. “You closing?”

“Yeah. Can’t make enough money to keep going,” he replied with a downtrodden look. “We’re having our farewell show tonight.”

“So what are doing with all the shit here?”

“Junking it; distributing it among ourselves; giving it away.”

“I just moved into a new apartment and my walls are blank. Got any posters I can snag?”

“Sure.” He turned away to grab a couple. I quickly snatched a couple stickers from the counter for my bass case. He handed me several solid posters and I thanked him and turned to leave. As I walked out the door, I could feel him eyeing the Very Hush Hush autographed poster. When I turned the corner, I glanced down and noticed the signatures were visible. Silently, I shook my head in anger that I didn’t just ask for the poster in the first place.

As turned into the parking lot, I saw my front car doors open, an ass sticking out of each one. “Hey! That’s my car!” I screamed, breaking into a sprint across the small lot. The two boys leapt from the car and ran off. I dove into the driver seat trying to check for damages: my blinkers were now on, but my entire display was missing; my stereo was sitting on the passenger seat; my steering wheel had been crowbarred enough to release the wires and hotwire the car.

“FUCK!” I screamed. Two uniformed cops came around the corner carrying snacks from the deli. “FUCK FUCK FUCK!”

“What seems to be the problem, son,” one asked.

“MY FUCKING CAR JUST GOT BROKEN INTO! I WANT TO FILE A FUCKING REPORT! FUCK!” The officer moved his free hand onto his holstered weapon.

“Now, calm down, son.”


“This isn’t helping. Perhaps you friends there can talk some sense into you.”

“My friends…” I sat upright and glanced in the rear view mirror. In the back seat were two more boys, both frozen in a mixture of fear and amusement. I burst out of the car, my eyes wide in surprise. I began dancing back and forth screaming incoherently in way that hadn’t been heard since the great drunken sailor riots of 1987. “I DON’T KNOW THE MOTHERFUCKERS! ARREST THOSE CUNT WHORING SONS OF A BABOON’S ASS!”

The boys didn’t move. They glanced back and forth from the cops to me, over and over as I yelled. “Sir, this isn’t helping!”


“Sir, calm down.”

“I DON’T MEAN TO BE TAKING IT OUT ON YOU! IT’S NOT YOUR FAULT! NOW FUCKING ARREST THEM!” One of the cops began step towards me. At this moment, the boys decided to break for it.

The door slammed into my knee, shooting pain up and down my leg. I spun with the hit, slamming the boy face first into the rear trunk with the full force of my body. I tried to slip him into a full nelson, but he evaded my left arm, reaching across his body to grab my right hand. The other body was in a full sprint across the lot, one of the cops on his tail, potato chips still in hand. I punched the boy in the ribs, the cracking sound music to my ears. He yanked on my arm, his teeth suddenly biting into the flesh of my clench right fist.

With that, I awoke, writhing in the throes of my latest dream. As I slowly adjusted to surroundings and realized where I was, I began thinking about the dream. Perhaps I deserved being robbed. Perhaps I asked for it. Perhaps it was karmic revenge, only in dream form. The only time I’ve shoplifted was when I took Firefly from Borders, but I know I’ve “found” plenty of things randomly that I shouldn’t have. When I was small, I used to take those little McDonald’s toys from my cousin when I came to visit. And always, my actions are rationalized: it’s a corporation; he stole these things first; he’s a bad person and deserves it; they have enough of them; I’ll give it back eventually; it’s not like it’s being used here…

It’s too easy to be bad, to rationalize not caring. And yet, in the end, it’s too hard to give up on myself and not care.



  • Wow. I feel so unintelligent when I read your entries. That’s a pretty crazy dream.

  • Wow. I feel so unintelligent when I read your entries. That’s a pretty crazy dream.

  • I’m not all that smart. I’m just good with words. The more you read and the more you write, the better you get. Go back and check out my first few entries from a couple of years ago and you’ll see what I mean.

  • I’m not all that smart. I’m just good with words. The more you read and the more you write, the better you get. Go back and check out my first few entries from a couple of years ago and you’ll see what I mean.