My First B&E

"I'm not like them
but I can pretend...
The day is done,
but I'm having fun
I think I'm dumb,
or maybe just happy"
-Nirvana, Dumb




Rereading my previous posts I'm starting to realize how publishing online raises my level of disclosure higher than I'd like at times. As long as this blog exists examples of my debauchery, rash decision making, over indulgence and (yes) stupidity are forever documented. True I may exaggerate here or there slightly for dramatic effect but I assure everyone EVERYTHING I've posted actually happened. I'm not embarrassed by any of it. Well I wasn't, until recently when I did the single most idiotic thing I have ever done ...

We'll get to that but first I must save face as best I can and set the context. Living in downtown Columbus I rarely drive anywhere. Besides the now routine 670 work commute five days a week my car stays parked. I walk to the grocery store, the barber, to friend's houses, record shops, restaurants and bars. If I don't feel like walking and I have some extra singles in my pocket, I take a cab. At the most it costs me six bucks with tip. Why would you drive? Honestly, if I could snag a decent gig in the neighborhood I would sell my car in a heartbeat.

That's besides the point. During my multiple treks, especially along Neil Avenue, I've noticed beautiful, well maintained "show homes" that have always peeked my curiosity. Basically they're renovated old homes that are kept up but unoccupied. No one is ever there. The economy is super pissed at everyone so they've stayed on the market and on more than one occasion, always intoxicated, I've peered into a window or two. Usually the dust is an inch thick. All the furniture is covered up. A few lights might be on but there is always a sense of little to no habitation.

Tucked away beside an alley at the the end of my street is one such house. Not once had I seen anyone come in or out. Nor a single figure in any window. I've always admired the three story structure which predates my mother, taking my time whenever walking by. In my mind I'd fantasied about actually entering the house and taking a look around but my curiosity never got the best of me. Until the night in question ...

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It was four a.m. on a cold morning in November. I had met friends at Skully's for The Floorwalkers CD release show. I'd never seen so many people turn out for a local act. They were hanging off the rafters, smoking dope, snorting powder in the bathroom and generally just carrying on. Thoroughly intoxicated by the end of it all, I wandered my familiar route home. I arrived at the corner of Hunter and Smith. There it was, taunting me. Lonely, unappreciated and daring anyone to investigate. Nicknacks covered in dust littered the windowsills and two weeks of news papers were piled on the stoop. It was pitch black except for the porch light and the first room behind the front door. I couldn't resist taking a peek in one of the windows. Totally deserted. Plastic slips covered the chairs and tables.

I climbed onto the front stoop and opened the screen slowly to prevent the hinge squeak from being too loud. I got a good look in through the stained glass on the front door. The only eliminated room gave me a feeling of vast age and intense comfort. Without realizing what I was doing my hand felt the door knob and gave it a turn. Unlocked. The massive oak door swung open. I flinched, startled at how easily it'd given way. Not a sound from inside the house. For a second I could swear I was floating from above, watching some moron inside my body lean his head inside the doorway. It felt like I was in a dream and I had no control over the next move.

Upon entering the first thing I noticed was the silence. So quite it was almost deafening. Palpable. A total lack of sound. My heart rate was increasing dramatically in response to doing something I knew damn well wasn't intelligent. Every pump of blood into my ears sounded like a bass drum. The place reeked of must and mothballs. Just like grandma's house. It was fairly warm, so the caretaker or whoever keeps the building up left the heat on. A beautiful electric chandelier hung from the third floor ceiling over the marble foyer. Ever square inch of the landing walls were covered with ornately framed paintings. Most originals upon closer inspection. There were also black and white family photos tinted yellow with age. The images were grainy like old movies. Very eerie.

After a minute or so I thought to leave but then I saw the books. They filled countless cases to my left that rounded out the rectangular, red velvet carpeted staircase. This house was worth millions based only on the decor. I rested my hand on the black mahogany banister and looked up. It stretched on for three floors and ever shelve looked filled to capacity. I'd come this far, a voice said in my head. There was no resisting. Might as well go a little further. I climbed the first flight perusing titles as I went.

The books were arranged with a haphazard carelessness. No sense of order whatsoever. Mostly old text books and random works of fiction. I took down a volume of Mark Twain's Life on the Mississippi. Opening to the publication page my jaw almost hit the floor. It was printed in 1903. Looking over my shoulder to make sure no one was around I tucked it under my arm as a possible souvenir. Just for shits and giggles I hide a couple of my "writer for hire" business cards inside a few other volumes. Leaving possible evidence at the scene of a crime. Real fucking bright. In hind sight I'm starting to see what a jackass I can be when I drink. When I entered my intent was never to steal anything but there I was, 10 minutes into a Breaking and Entering rap and helping myself to stolen property. Just then I heard movement below me.

Adrenalin shoot throughout my body and whatever buzz I had left was gone instantly. Panic took over. I had never been more scared in my life. Even taking care to watch my steps during the morning tour, every movement created a very audible creak. If I moved now whoever was below would certainly hear me. There was shuffling on the first floor marble. I carefully looked over the rail just in time to see a hunchbacked old man shut and lock the door I'd entered earlier.

After the deadbolt slammed into place the gravity of the situation hit me like a Buick. I quickly took a look around weighing my options. Hide and hope he went away, escaping later or confronting him and bailing now. He hadn't seen me on the second floor landing directly above him so I decided to find the nearest hiding place. With my feet planted and the book giving me an extra five inches of reach I tried to push open the nearest door but it wouldn't budge. A hacking cough and several sneezes from the foyer. Taking the risk, I took one step, leaned in and tried the handle. Locked. Slippers scuffing against the floor. He was on the move again. I leaned back towards the rail.

My biggest fear was unfolding in slow motion. He began climbing the steps. Terror made every hair on my body stand on end. The old wood groaned and popped with every step, the acoustics of the house and lack of any other noise, amplifying everything. It was my only chance. I set the book down and tip-toed towards the next set of steps leading to the third floor. When I rounded corner I found the steps blocked by boxes upon boxes of even more books. Trapped. He was halfway to the top of the first flight. I was officially starting to freak out. I could feel the cold sweat break out all over my body. My bowels clenched and if I hadn't relieved myself recently I may have pissed in my pants. He hadn't seen me yet but could he smell the sour stench of my fear?

He was now on the second floor but I was safely hiding around the corner, on the first three steps leading to the top floor. By this point I was so afraid I couldn't think clearly. He was so close I could hear his breathing. It sounded labored and weak. Worst case scenario I could take him by force. Kill him if I had too. What the hell was I even thinking? Murder? I wasn't here to rob or hurt him. I was just a curious (idiot) kid taking a look around. I'd pushed my luck too far. He would have every right to shoot me dead. I saw the muzzle flash in my mind, felt the hot led in my gut as I curled into the fetal position, bleeding out at this strange old man's feet. I couldn't bare the thought of either outcome.

Forcing the issue I stepped from around the corner. We were about 8 feet apart. He jumped with a start and his eyes went big with fright. He started to tremble and dropped his cane. I could now see I had every bit of six inches and 60 pounds on the feeble framed geriatric. In retrospect, I probably scared the poor guy more then I had been scared to begin with.

"I'm so sorry!" I spouted, breaking the dead silence. "I thought it was abandon. I was just passing through and wanted to get warm. The door was unlocked. I'm not here to bother you in any way. I'm not a criminal!"

"Have you ben sleepin' ear?" he said in a think English accent. I explained that I hadn't and I wasn't homeless. Before he could say another word I rushed past him to the steps, babbling apologies the whole way down. It was all a blur. He didn't make a move to try and stop me, no doubt just glad I didn't try to push him down. I remember fumbling with the front door for a second before getting it open and just as I was walking out I looked back and saw the 1,000 yard stare of shock on his washed out and weathered face. Nervous/terrified/glad to be on my way out, I blurted out the first thing that came to mind ...

"It's a beautiful home," I said and sprinted into the street. Today, since I made it out safe, that's hilarious. More ridiculous really. I made sure to pass my front door and circle back around before entering in case anyone was on my trail. I laid on the couch with all the lights off, too petrified to move and so juiced up I didn't fall asleep until later the next day.

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A month has passed since my first B&E. Well technically the door has to be locked for you to break in. So is it just an entering? Either way, I learned a lesson and I avoid that corner like the plague. There's a reason that curiosity killed the cat I definitely used up one of my nine lives after that little stunt. Thank God he was an Englishman. A real, red-blooded American would have been locked, loaded and ready to blast any intruder dead. Hopefully in the future he'll keep his door locked and everyone reading this should do the same. You never know what kind of rift raft might just wander in off the street.


-J.R.