I am currently waiting in a small space between a clothes drying machine and a load bearing wall in the basement of the apartment complex on 1404 Radulf Boulevard. It required transit around several other clothes drying machines to reach, and the space over my head was occulted by a large chrome tube. Breaking and entering was a felony, but I doubted any of the residents or their guests would find me here, even the very concerned laundress in the room using the machines.
She had walked down the black metal stairs about one half of an hour ago, her clomping indicating boots or hooves. She mumbled loudly to herself, an unharmonious stream of emotionally charged noises. It was only the first of her unattractive qualities which made me recalculate the risks and rewards of remaining obscured.
The clomping lady spent the next quarter of an hour not laundering, as was the express purpose of this room, but examining each clothes washing machine for qualities I could not discern. I heard her, footfalls sharp and wooden, march to each machine, open its lid, declaim unintelligibly, and close the lid forcefully. I believe she peered into some of the machines for quite a while and possibly inserted her upper half into them to more closely investigate the washing basins. Even more irritating than her behavior, and that was very irritating, was the fact that no matter how loud or proximate she was I could not hear a single distinct word she said.
Madam did eventually find a clothes washing machine which, to judge by the tone and guttural quality of her vocalizations, was the least unacceptable option. She stomped to her pile of clothes, grunted impressively, and stomped back to the least unacceptable clothes washing machine. The length of time it took her to pour her clothing into the machine gave indication of the weight and volume of her charge.
After the lady had begun laundering she decamped to the stairs to, as far as I could tell, simply sit. I assumed she was guarding her laundry from other residents, though there was an outside possibility she was guarding the residents from her laundry. While I respect the virtues of patience and conscientiousness concomitant with guard duty, I had planned to begin the central component of my journey more than one half of an hour ago. The cause for delay was as upsetting to me as the time elapsed.
I calculated the time it could take to launder her clothes. Based on the intensity of her grunting and the insertion time of the pile, I speculated that she had a load almost certainly designated as “extra” or “super” large on a modern clothes washing machine. Depending on the instructions she gave the device, it could take more than an hour to process her request. And this was but the first step of the washing-drying task; there was no reason to think she would be less thorough executing the second.
Action was required. Fortunately my preternatural talent at interspecies communication facilitated a wider variety of options than those obviously available. I simply reached out with my mind, calling sweetly to the rat I had seen every few minutes emerging out of the wall nearby. It took only a few minutes of gentle serenading to attract the noble creature, and I swiftly blocked re-entry to his domicile. As I had predicted, the powerful psychic energies of a grown man diving towards his home awed and frightened the rat. Chirping maledictions, for which I do not for a moment blame him, the animal sped to the other side of the room.
Of course, an adult who maintains vigil over peri-laundered clothing could not fail to notice the high-pitched squeals and frantic motion of a rat moved by fear and awe. I felt a twinge of guilt for involving a rat in my scheming, but if I proceeded as intended it would not be my worst offense. That would be the breaking and entering, which is a felony.
No sooner had my coerced companion exposed himself then an emotional wail emerged from the clomping woman, an animalistic noise of reaction emanating from the body’s most ancient fears. Something about flea- and disease-infested creatures that can sneak into your bedroom and stare ominously at your old photographs sets most people on edge. I had counted on this atavistic terror, and I was rewarded with the sound of ascending clomps.
I must act! There was no telling when she might return with reinforcements. I tore across the room and up the stairs, finding myself in the ill-lit lobby of the building on 1404 Radulf Boulevard. I commenced at once a combat roll to the space behind a couch, heard no enemy fire or clomping, and proceeded to the central staircase. It was here that the trial was truly in the hands of the gods.
I thought unwelcoming thoughts as loudly as I could, for I had no other weapons against detection. At any moment a resident or their guest could emerge into the stairwell and espy me, my unlawful intentions radiating from my soul into this tiny concrete tomb. Also they could conceivably have an axe, and that would be an effective counter to my unwelcoming thoughts.
One floor, two floors, three floors- four! This was the floor I required, and I reached it none too soon for the sound of rambunctious young people burst out of the third-floor doorway. But I had little to worry from young people egressing at night, their minds fixed on their upcoming orchestra recitals or monster truck rallies.
Through the fourth floor door I went, and I gave thanks I had meticulously studied the building’s floor plan. I had purchased the plans from a venal government official, sending an unsuspecting cutout with five hundred American dollars to effect the transaction. Even if he were caught, he could only describe my raccoon mask; no one would know I specifically possessed this information. I had, by repetitious viewing and sketched recreations, earned the memories of the tower’s halls and apartments, its public spaces and stairwells both simple and emergency. I called to the front of my mind the design of this level: it was a square.
I casually slinked along the hall, pressed against the side to give me precious moments to act should anyone come around a corner. I tried not to think about that time in gym class when I dropped a heavy weight and was thoroughly mocked for it. Only when I start thinking of that I can never stop, and it would be a real distraction on my intricate mission.
I neared my goal, door 412 on the fourth floor of the apartment building on 1404 Radulf Boulevard. This would impress that weight-lifting jerk Wally Smits- no! There was no time for this! I hurriedly readied my tools: lockpicking was an art and I excelled at it. This was my first in vivo attempt and the prospect of discovery was nerve wracking.
My dexterity had abandoned me! I was shaking too much, fearing at any moment a resident or their guest bursting from another door and shrieking at the sight of an interloper. Could I escape in time to evade the law? Could Wally Smits be here, lurking- no! Focus on the task! I shoved all other thoughts aside and inserted my picks deftly, lifting and turning as the spirit moved me. I was quite certain that if Wally Smits saw me now- no, no, no!
There was nothing for it. Risk of detection or no I would have to deal with intrusive thoughts properly or I would never succeed. I drew all the will I possessed and imagined a wave of calm studiousness emerging outward from me, afflicting all the residents and their guests with the unopposable urge to carefully research their favorite moon-related topic.
I don’t know if it was enough, but I had to go on. I sat in front of the door and crossed my legs. I folded my hands in my lap and closed my eyes. I would meditate, permitting all thoughts to permeate my soul and accepting them no matter what. Radical love for all feelings and thoughts was the only way I could complete my felony.
I imagined a stream of greenish water lazily flowing through a field of well-maintained grass. I imagined giant leaves and sometimes lily pads floating by in succession, one after the other. When a thought arose I moved it to the leaves and sometimes lily pads, letting it glide by without coercion or anger. I saw Wally Smit’s sneering idiot face full of malice, but I let it glide. I saw the authorities chasing me with a giant net because they’d forgotten to charge their stun guns, but I let it glide. I saw a rabbit the size of the Colossus of Rhodes proclaiming his divine mandate, but I let it glide. That one was on a lily pad. I saw Wally Smit’s pukey mouth telling stories about me to the other villains, making them all point to me and shower me with their well honed invectives, which I shall not repeat because my mind is a civilized place thank you very much at least until Wally Smits and his noxious odors showed up taking up space better suited to the contemplation of POOP-
No! Back to the river. Back to the giant leaves and sometimes lily pads. I placed Wally smits, a band of ill-mannered school children, and poop each in turn on a giant leaf or sometimes lily pad. I let them glide on sedately; if they chose to stay I would accept that as well.
My eyes popped open. I was ready now, and clearly my urge to study calmly affected everyone because no one had left their apartments. I rose to my full height, hunched a little because the doorknob was weirdly low, and dove in lockpick first. I had neither hesitation nor doubt, and in less than a minute I heard the quiet click of curiosity sated. Or in this case, felonies officially committed.
The door was open just long enough for me to cross the boundary into the darkened suites of Susan the Enemy.
Callous impropriety, thy name is Susan! I could think of no family gathering, some of them organized for months, where Susan hadn’t displayed a shocking lack of manners and an ignorance of family affairs that left a wake of irritation and hurt feelings. It didn’t matter who had recently finalized a contentious divorce, Susan would find a way to mention how incompetant they were in matters of romance. With a roguish smile, asking us not only to permit her rudeness but to accept it as part of an anti-hero trope!
Once Susan had actually gone home to change into a bright green sweater in order to ask Color-Blind Ted what color it was. Another time she had hidden herself behind a festive tent and revealed herself dramatically, causing passing aunts and uncles to lose their grips on their drinks. After Delilah’s dog perished in a physical confrontation with a bus, Susan went to its grave at night, exhumed the corpse, recovered the remaining fur, and had it professionally styled into a smart evening jacket. Just to show up to Delilah’s Avocado Day bash and say “oh this? Just a German shepherd I found.”
We had all had enough, but only I possessed the vivacity to act.
Her rooms were dark and cluttered, not a cubit of wall space blank but covered in gaudy baubles, signs, posters, blankets, banners, dreamcatchers, flags, maps, and a large picture of wood. The carpet and couch were both blue and lamps were scattered around recklessly. To the right of the living room was a small kitchen that smelled of hair.
I was not here to judge her decorating. I was here to steal a book of pictures with enormous sentimental value to my target. Clandestine surveillance of my cousins revealed that Susan adored her old collectibles, and The Horsey ABCs were the centerpiece of her collection. Tiny stuffed mice, marbles of various hue, incandescent bulbs- all were but satellites to the picture book and its pronounced absence would strike the enemy like a kick to the shins when you were carrying something very heavy and then you drop it in front of everyone and become embarrassed. That’s how lack of picture book would affect Susan.
I hunched and sucked in my mighty imagination as I stepped lightly down the central hallway and past the lavatory. Even here the walls were burdened with photographs of odd ponies and leering bushes, and the ruckus on the walls made the hall seem claustrophobic and small. I made sure not to touch any of the bric-a-brac- Susan would not summon the authorities herself but I didn’t want to spoil the intended effect of the theft. She should approach her trophy room contentedly and full of the expectation of pleasure before the rug beneath her soul was forcibly removed.
The last door opened onto my prize. A spare bedroom converted into a temple for obsessions and peculiarities. Normal enough, but how foolish to leave such a weak spot and so deeply offend the family! From the near left corner to the far right the carpet was spraypainted the colors of the rainbow; red, orange, yellow, green, murcron, blue, indigo, and violet. The walls were covered with sheets of sparkly glass and beads. Atop the glass was affixed the furs of various alpacas and small plaques with their Latin names.
Atop the floor were museum-quality display cases, brown and varying in size. Concentric circles radiated out from a central point, each case proudly displaying its contents. The bottoms of the display cases were riveted into the floor, in case she misplaced the bottoms of the display cases. I walked among the displays.
Incandescent bulbs old and new took up several cases and I was forced to admit I admired the collection of Made-In-India Low Tones. I saw marbles loose, marbles nesting in chrome moulding, marbles glued to old dolls. Paste from defunct companies made a stronger than expected showing - I would have to remember that about her. Emeralds spilled out of an elegant woven basket, adding their glitter to that of the wall-glass. I saw a dessicated old monkey’s paw, its curled fingers forcibly bent back and stapled into place on the case. Amateurish.
In the center like a goddess’ statue was The Horsey ABCs. I approached with care and concentration.
I intuited a hint of why Susan so valued the book. It was blue, and that’s fun. It had a very pleasant looking horse on the cover, bounding over a meadow of flowers. It had no rider but was free. If rumor held true every page portrayed an additional horse, illustrated with clarity but respectful of the blurring realities of the impressionist tradition. Additionally each page prominently featured a letter of the alphabet in colorful blocks, most attractive to letter-learners of any age.
The case was closed unlocked. I lifted the lid gingerly and the lack of emerging dust told me how often Susan the Enemy viewed her prize and by extension, how much love she had for it. I was equipped with a small leather bag and into it I slipped the captive book, folding over the bag’s cover and securing it to my back.
I felt a change in the air, an infinitesimal tension and electricity. I had consummated my felony, executed the unlawful seizure of much valued property with malice aforethought. And while a scrap of soul within me cried out for the lost beauty of lawfulness, my core sneezed disdain and relished my accomplishment.
I turned to leave and started. I had shut the trophy room door behind me and on this side was a full-length picture of the Cardinal. Dressed immaculately in gown of white and hat of red, his lizard face was dry and scaly with spots of blood. He had his left arm raised in condemnation and his right outstretched, a piece of silver resting on a slender clawed hand. The Moon was full behind his head and blue smoke was obscuring his lower half and billowing into a sickly green sky.
That rancid bitch.
Of course a regular thief would simply ignore the Cardinal, or steal it, and blame the misery following on upbringing or psychology or circumstances. But no family member would be so ignorant as to disregard the author of a thousand trials. I had one option: I must tryst with this madness and proffer my will as proof of the justice of my theft. I squared off before the beast and opened my mind.
I kept my eyes open, locked on the Cardinal’s beady black eyes. I let all thoughts flow, let my mind clear for the upcoming struggle. It was said the Cardinal projected might but practiced subtlety; I would have to be agile. As I stared at the poster I felt a rushing, burning sense that staring at a poster was dumb, but that’s exactly the sort of trick a deceitful lizard-priest would deploy.
The picture began to sway, moving in and out of focus. The colors altered slightly, the shades of every hue changing in a pattern so minute as to nearly be missed but so incongruous as to cause madness. I did not challenge the madness but accepted it, waiting to see if the Cardinal would bat me aside like an impudent weasel, leaving me writhing on the floor deep in infinity.
I heard the clatter of vole feet across formica tiles. I smelled a pile of oranges large enough to draw police suspicion, and I felt my mind preparing to animate such an oddity. But here I was dextrous, focusing on the smell and letting the investigators gather whichever fruits they pleased. I was in a forest, wide beyond the reckoning of man and older than mechanical clocks. No sooner had I recovered from the shock and begun to appreciate the pleasing odors than the forest had vanished, and I was back in the Enemy’s trophy room matching wits with the Cardinal.
I heard a crash from another apartment but disregarded it. I heard the sounds of the street, tromping boots and sirens and laughter and coyote howls, and I let them into me like a swirling fog. I could hear the color blue, a high-pitched whine that belied its calming appearance. I saw the vibrations of the energy of the atoms of the wood of the door, saw them flow between local reality and universal absorption in the Everything. I smelled the flash of light at the birth of the cosmos.
I snapped back to my rightful place. It had ended, and I had won. The Cardinal, his knowledge expansive and his attention dangerous to humans, had felt my determination and granted me safe passage through the doorway to the hall.
I did not long contemplate my victory but opened the door and slipped through. I could still feel the loose boundaries of the cosmos shifting back into place, as they did every moment when the Universe is annihilated and remade but really, really quickly so you don’t notice it. The claustrophobic hallway was as a dark tunnel but the living room seemed a child’s playpen. Had I truly feared Susan so much?
I paused near the final door, listening for residents and their guests. I peered through the looking hole and saw a bizarre fishbowl universe that hurt my eyes. I opened the door and slid through, closing it quietly behind me.
Soft and I was off, breezing through the hall without a thought of capture. At the lobby I turned for the main entrance and strolled right out, my prize burning like a star on my back. I maintained an erect posture, a mimesis against the law, and found the waiting car I had parked on the street some time ago. I entered it, hid on the floor, and waited.
None would find me now, I was sure of it. I paused to recover my wits and to let the energy of the felony drain out of me lest I burst into riotous singing. I let my heart beat and my lungs breathe, I felt myself detensioning and my soul coming into new equilibrium with my life as a hardened criminal.
My task was complete. In the morning I would take my prize to a hiding place known only to myself and with quiet satisfaction await the frenetic rage of Susan the Enemy, hoisted on the petard of familial propriety. I smiled, and let sleep take me.