Encumbered? Aren’t we all? Along with the gift of life comes a dubious present… a gift of hardship and tears.
We toil and labor for our keep.
But the Benefits of life… clearly outweigh the inconveniences.
The inconveniences?
In the midst of life there is a constant struggle.
In the midst of life there is sickness and death.
And yet, in the midst of life even though we are battle weary… we march on.
I looked around the darkened closet with my small flashlight for a weapon. Anything that I could use to defend myself. There was nothing.
All I had on me was the glass cutter. Would that be enough to ward off the two big dogs? Would it be enough to defend myself?
I found a wire hanger and bent the hook. I made it straight. I made it into a pointy weapon. If I had to, I would stab the dogs with it.
I took the shoulders of the hanger — the triangular part that holds the clothes — and bent them together. I was trying to make it into a handle so that I could grasp it better. Turn it into a better weapon.
I was ready. But I knew I had to calm myself down. My hands were shaking. And I was breathing heavily. I was wondering if I was having a panic attack.
Calm down! Calm down! I didn’t want the dogs to see that I was scared. Or scent it.
The thought of just staying in the closet briefly flashed through my mind. Why risk being attacked by the two big dogs? But what if someone heard them barking? What if they called the cops?
I couldn’t take the chance.
And the dogs seemed to be much calmer now.
I started thinking about the beach, and a warm summer day. Girls all around… with hardly anything on.
I started thinking about Vivian. We both loved to dine and dance and party. Life for the both of us was a never-ending roller-coaster ride.
I thought about the cruise ship that we went on together. And that one starlit night, when the fragrance of love was in the air.
It was magical.
We were near the ship’s bow when I proposed.
And with her long golden hair blowing in the breeze and the backdrop of the moon and stars… She looked like a goddess.
She accepted, and smiled lovingly, looking at me bending down with my knee on the floor.
We had a big party afterward to celebrate the occasion. Though neither of us ever really needed a reason to party or celebrate.
I calmed down.
I was ready!
I came out with a big smile on my face and started petting the dogs. And while I was petting them… I was talking nicely to them.
My heart was beating so fast that I thought it would break free from my chest. The two vicious dogs were now acting like playful puppies. One even jumped on me and almost knocked me down.
The light was on! Someone turned on the light. It was the couple. They returned. But they were supposed to be gone for the weekend. I put my hands up. And dropped the hanger, and glass cutter. I surrendered.
I said, “I don’t have a weapon.”
The woman yelled, “Caesar, Brutus attack.” She pointed her finger at me.
The playful German Shepherds turned into the monsters that they were trained to be.
I tried to protect my neck. I read that is the first place they like to attack.
I was screaming, begging… pleading.
I felt the pressure from the dogs’ powerful jaws as they bit into my arms and legs.
I screamed, “My hand! My fingers! My fingers! Call them off!”
I was down. I was on the floor. The dogs were on top of me.
The side of my face was being ripped apart.
I was being torn apart.
The story will be continued in the Burglar 5.
Thanks for reading. And your comments are always welcome.
There is a world that breathes fire and brimstone… but rather than be afraid, its enticing green allure intoxicates many people.
There is an underground network of deception and fraud. A huge snake slithering under the very fabric of a civilized society.
The scent of money fuels its passion.
Those that are hypnotized become part of a culture that scams, cons, steals, and deceives. And even kills.
They become part of the snake. And their voracious appetites are never satiated.
Trapped in this maze are the gullible citizens that the snake preys upon.
It’s only a matter of time before you fall into its grasp and become its next victim.
It’s only a matter of time before you’re gasping for breath.
The players that roll the dice, come from all parts of society. And they play a wide variety of deceitful games very well.
The black market helps them. The internet helps them.
Need a fake ID? No problem. Need a fake Social Security number? No problem. Need a fake degree that you can put on your office wall? No problem. Fake death certificate? No problem. Fake work permit? No problem. Fake naturalization papers? No problem. Fake passport? No problem. Fake tax return from the IRS? No problem. Fake vendors license? No problem. Fake Sales tax number? No problem.
The list goes on and on.
I received information that a couple was going away for the weekend. They live in the well to do Brooklyn Heights area. The husband is a collector of rare coins. He keeps them in a wall safe.
He either shows the rare coins off whenever he has company, or transacts business in his home. That’s why he needs them to be readily available.
Can you believe the ego this guy has? What a narcissistic personality. He probably thought that he would never get robbed. Is he someone special?
This was an easy score. I canvassed the area. I always do that before a job. It’s just common sense.
They live on the second floor and the building is on the corner. There is no other building across the street. Just small businesses that would be closed late at night. Perfect. No prying eyes to be worried about.
Amazingly, they have a fire escape around the back of the building. Easy for me to climb up. Could this get any easier? They should just hand me the keys.
How am I going to get the wall safe open?
The wall safe was installed a month ago.
One of the people cleaning up the mess that the construction workers left after putting in the wall safe, found a paper with a combination number on it. It was carelessly left by the safe. The guy took a picture of it with his cell phone.
All his contacts needed now was a time when the couple were going away. A time when they won’t be home. When they found that out, they would contact my people.
** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** **
It was easy getting the window open. Do you know what a glass cutter is?
It is a tool used to make a scratch on the surface of glass, creating a weak point that allows the glass to be broken cleanly along the scratched surface. I made a hole big enough for my hand to get through, and unlocked the window.
I learned that it’s a good idea to put fast acting cement glue in the middle of where you’re scratching with the glass cutter. I usually glue a small handle to the window. This way, instead of pushing the glass in… you can pull it out. That way the glass won’t fall to the floor and make any noise.
I was in.
I don’t know why, but I always tiptoe around. I turned on my small flashlight so that I could see. I thought I heard something. What was that? I ran into the closet and closed the door behind me. I left it open wide enough so that I could take a peek.
Through the crack I saw two enormous German Shepherd dogs. I don’t know if they saw me or could smell me, but they started barking viciously at the closet door.
I was trapped.
I wondered if any of the neighbors could hear them. They were making quite a racket.
I was afraid.
If the dogs didn’t get me the cops would. Someone is bound to call them.
The dogs are making too much noise. Why didn’t they hear me earlier? Before I opened the window. If I would’ve seen them… I would have left.
Were they asleep? Were they eating? Were they humping on each other?
The information that I received was bad. It was bad. No mention of dogs.
And these were not small or medium sized German Shepherds. They looked like they were on steroids. I thought of calling my uncle. What was I thinking about? He was in jail.
I had to use my brain. I had to calm myself down. I had to think.
I started talking nicely to the dogs. “Here boy… nice boy. Do you want a treat? A dog bone?” I kept talking and talking. “Do you want to play fetch with a ball?”
They weren’t barking as much. They were calming down. I continued talking to them softly and then I opened up the door wide enough so that I could stick out my left hand. My right hand held my glass cutter. My heart was pounding. I started petting one of the dogs. They both started wagging their tails.
I continued talking to them. “Good boy… good boy.”
Were they playing me for a fool? If I came out… would they tear me to pieces?
The story will be continued in The Burglar 4
Thank you for reading, your feedback is warmly appreciated and anxiously awaited.
Where does the time go? They say that time flies by when you’re having fun. And I’ve had plenty of fun. A non-stop party.
I’ve danced. I’ve dined.
Romanced. Laughed. Lived.
I’m twenty-four now. And for the past five years I’ve been a burglar. I’ve robbed over fifty homes and have only been caught once. I pleaded guilty.
My attorney told me to tell the judge that, “I needed the money to pay my rent. I never did anything like that before and would never do it again.”
Two years’ probation. I couldn’t believe it. I almost started laughing in court, but my attorney gave me a stern look. My mom was so relieved that she started crying. That happened three years ago, and I haven’t been caught since.
When I first started this business, my uncle taught me what to do and introduced me to people that would help me. I was so naive.
Do you know that there is an underground network of people that provide professional burglars with information, and they get paid for the information? In the beginning I didn’t know that.
The information can come from a waitress working in a diner in a rich neighborhood that learns that the rich family is going on vacation. It can come from a postal worker that delivers their mail. It can come from a bartender. It can come from a cop. It can come from a real estate agent working in the area. It can come from a nanny.
It can come from anywhere dark.
All you have to know is who to give the information to. The average person doesn’t know. But those that do make a nice side income. There is an underground market for everything. And people get paid for referrals.
There was one guy I knew that made over 50K referring people to guys that would set them up with fake Social Security numbers. And other fake State IDs.
Fraud everywhere. Corruption everywhere. Everyone is looting the government piggy bank, and no one is held accountable.
Even dead people are receiving government checks. They even received Covid checks.
Too much fraud. Too much corruption. Impossible to track it all down. And we know that.
If you’re a criminal, the prison system is like going to college. It’s a great place to learn or refine your craft. My uncle learned many things there.
He learned how to use a computer. And he learned how to rob people using it.
Simple scam.
Attack them with a virus. It will freeze their computer and have a warning appear on their screen.
“Warning! Your system has been compromised by hackers. All your private information is at risk. Contact this number immediately.”
A telephone number starts flashing on the person’s screen. And to make the warning even more ominous… It is accompanied by a loud sounding alarm.
When people call the number on their computer screen the con artist pretends to work for the computer company.
The mark, not thinking and worried that his bank information and other financial information is at risk… allows the scammer access to his computer.
The scammer has him download a program that makes that possible.
And while that is happening the scammer tells him not to hang up. He needs to resolve this issue immediately. And starts asking him a series of questions about his computer.
Part of the scam.
The scammer wants to keep the mark focused and worried. The scammer also doesn’t want the mark to call someone else. Someone that might be thinking more clearly. Someone that might question what is going on.
The program has been downloaded.
The scammer now has access to the computer… and he now steers the mark to his bank account, and other financial accounts, on the pretense that they needed to check to see if anything was stolen.
The scammer can see the mark enter his password into the different accounts.
Once the scammer assures the mark that his account is safe, he tells the mark that he will receive an email — part of the scam — so that he can rate the help that he received.
The scammer says goodbye and hangs up.
But the scammer still has access to the marks computer and starts transferring money from the marks bank accounts or other financial accounts. The scammer robs the guy blind.
Out of one hundred people: how many people would fall for this scam?
All you need is one. And you’ve made a nice score. And seniors are the most gullible. Not only because of their age but also because they are not technologically savvy.
And that is why they like to do the scams in the afternoon. When the adults that a senior citizen might be living with are at work or at school.
Easy prey.
Just one of many scams.
When my uncle found out that a friend of mine, Gerard, who moved to Pennsylvania, was working at an upscale watch factory there, making these really expensive watches, he challenged me to a bet.
He said to me, “Let’s see how smart you are. How can you steal watches from that factory? If you don’t figure it out… you owe me a steak dinner.”
I took the bet, but I knew that it was impossible. Gerard and I had already talked about it.
But I was curious. Maybe my uncle really could figure out a way.
No one could enter the factory with a bag. Not even a jacket or coat.
They had a separate room, away from the factory entrance, for employees to keep their personal belongings.
And after their shift finished, the employees had to leave through an exit in the rear of the factory that had a metal detector. And from there they could go and pick up their belongings.
It was impossible.
I finally figured it out. I felt like I was struck with a lightning bolt. I had an epiphany.
I proudly told my uncle, “You can take the expensive watches and throw them out the window, and someone outside can catch them.”
My uncle started laughing. And so did his two friends, Sally and Patrick.
I started oozing red. I felt like a fool.
But my mom wasn’t laughing. She was listening behind the door.
I never saw her hit her younger brother, my uncle before. But she came storming into the living room and started pounding on him while yelling, “Why are you teaching him these things. You’re teaching him to be a criminal.”
I didn’t find out that day how to steal the watches from the factory. But eventually my uncle told me.
Have you figured it out?
You never will. It’s so simple.
You throw the watches in the garbage. Four or five a day. Eight or nine a day. Whatever you can.
At this watch factory, every night, after the workers went home, the owner, accompanied by a security guard, would watch the maintenance worker take the garbage to the front of the factory, exit, and go to the service area elevators.
These elevators left the worker off in the back of the factory, in the garbage area.
One man’s trash is another man’s treasure.
Gerard started doing what my uncle told him. Just a few at a time.
Benny, an accomplice and friend of Gerard’s who also lived in the area, would pretend to be a homeless man.
And every night, he would go to the garbage area in the back of the factory. He would open up the bags of garbage. But he wasn’t looking for food, or a place to sleep. He was looking for expensive upscale watches that sold for around two thousand dollars each.
Gerard did it for only one month. My uncle didn’t want to get greedy. He felt that even the dumb factory owners would eventually figure out that their inventory was disappearing.
In one month, Gerard threw in the garbage a total of one hundred watches. The average retail value for each was 2,500 dollars.
They stole 250,000 dollars.
I would later learn that this way of stealing was not unknown.
Professional thieves would even work regular jobs to infiltrate a company.
And throwing out merchandise with garbage has been around for decades.
That’s why they say, “One man’s trash is another man’s treasure.”
The titillating wisp of life, while fleeting, is still something to behold.
I like to party like there is no tomorrow. And I hang out with people that are
like-minded. We inhale life to the fullest, and for us there is no other way to live.
We empty the glass. And then the bottle.
The vagaries of life have instilled in me a desire to flaunt the moment and live it.
I like girls. I always have. I like fancy clubs. I always have. I like dining in classy restaurants that serve great food and wine. I always have. I am just like my uncle.
My uncle Don is my mom’s brother. He’s the black sheep in the family. When I was younger, and he would disappear for a few months or a year or two, my family would tell me that he was in the Army and being deployed.
As I got older, I realized that he was a criminal, and he was going back and forth to jail. He was also a jack of all trades. He didn’t specialize in any type of criminal activity. He just robbed whenever he could.
I also heard he was a low-level drug dealer. And he would also work from time to time with Mr. D’Angelis, who was a loan shark, and he collected money that people owed him.
I was afraid of my uncle’s buddies.
I was fourteen when I met Sally and Patrick. Neither guy looked like nice people. And you could tell by the way they spoke and the coarse language that they used… they weren’t choir boys.
I can still vividly recall that day my mom got home from work, and she saw the three of them sitting in her kitchen and playing cards. She went berserk. She didn’t mind putting her brother up when he needed a place to live — he was her flesh and blood — but she didn’t like his friends.
I didn’t understand it at the time. I felt my mom was very rude to my uncle’s friends and they were both always very nice and respectful toward her.
As I got older, I realized that their nice demeanor was just like the mask of a clown. Behind the mask… their true personalities hid.
And don’t get me wrong. It wasn’t because my mom was afraid of my uncle’s friends. She just didn’t want them around her son. They were a bad influence.
I remember one day coming home from a party, and it was very late at night. I was a few blocks from my home, and I saw Patrick inside Mr. Carrell’s car. I hid behind a van and watched.
The car’s hood was up.
Mr. Carrell owned the butcher shop, and he drove a Lexus. Patrick drove off with the car. He stole it.
Since the arrival of my uncle and his friends, there were all kinds of strange things happening in my neighborhood. Guys with license plates from New Jersey and even Connecticut would pull up in front of a grocery store two blocks from me. They would go inside and stay a few minutes and leave without buying any groceries.
One time I saw a cop car pull up, and the cops got out, and walked over to Patrick, and he handed them a black plastic bag. Was it money? Was it drugs?
There were also a few burglaries in the neighborhood. The richer people in the neighborhood were being targeted.
It was a Saturday afternoon, and I was watching a football game. I just turned nineteen a few days ago.
My uncle asked, “Do you feel like going for a ride?”
“Where to?”
“New Jersey.”
I asked, “Do you know people in Jersey? Who are we going to see?”
He abruptly asked, “Do you want to go or not.”
I went. It was a nice drive. And the area we were in had really big homes. You could tell that the people that lived there were very affluent. Instead of smelling the green grass, you could smell the money.
We stopped at this one house, and my uncle pulled the car around the back. Away from the main road. The nearest home was over 2500 feet away.
We got out of the car, and he handed me a balaclava which covers your entire face and neck. People wear them in the winter to protect them from the cold weather.
I saw enough movies, where the crooks wore the same thing. Something was about to go down.
I was surprised. I wasn’t afraid.
My heart was racing. It was exciting.
My uncle gave me a sledgehammer to carry. He had wire cutters, and he quickly disabled the alarm. He easily broke the lock on the back door, and we were in.
Once inside, he knew exactly where he was going. He climbed up the stairs like he owned the place. I was tiptoeing.
We went into a bedroom, and he took down a painting. There was a wall safe behind it. He handed me his backpack.
He told me, “Fill it up with money, jewelry, and anything that looks valuable.”
I started with the bedroom that we were in and then started searching the other rooms. While I was doing that my uncle used the sledgehammer to break the sheetrock and concrete around the wall safe.
In one of the rooms, I found a jewelry box with a mirror in it. It had all kinds of jewelry.
Chains, bracelets, watches, rings. I didn’t know if it was junk jewelry or not. I would later learn how to tell the difference.
I took everything.
My uncle called me on my cellphone. He was finished.
The both of us pulled the wall safe out of the wall and carried it to the car. That was the hardest part of the job. The wall safe was heavy.
That was my first burglary. We stole almost twenty-five thousand dollars in half an hour.
My uncle gave me four thousand dollars. And while he paid me, he crowed, “I knew you were just like me. Pretty girls, fast cars, and a carefree lifestyle.”
The Soldier, that’s what my wife called me. It was the day that I was drafted into the army. She was joking around at the time and trying to make light out of what was a very serious affair. I joked around with her too. It helped us to ease the tension.
I’’m the last guy that you would ever choose to be in a fight. I’m just not a fighter. Even as a kid, when I saw other boys fighting, I tried to break it up. I’m not the fighting type. But now, I had no choice.
Lincoln’s Emancipation Proclamation has helped me. He freed all the slaves. That was a noble thing to do, and I now felt that I was fighting for a great cause. For no one Made in the Image of Almighty God should ever be enslaved.
The past two years have been rough. At night I go to bed, hearing the moans of those that have been injured earlier in the day. And with the smell of gunpowder still in my nostrils. Have you ever stabbed a man with a bayonet? I have. And I held him in my arms and watched as he prayed to God and then died. He looked like he was around sixteen.
Sometimes at night, while I’m trying to fall asleep, I can still hear the sounds of gunfire, rifled muskets, ringing in my ears. And the screams of men being hit. And crying out for help.
Sometimes at night, I’m bombarded with terrifying dreams… Nightmares. Soldiers that I’ve known, badly hurt and crying out to me, pleading with me for help… but there is a deep abyss, that is bubbling up with blood and separating us. I could never reach them.
Sometimes at night, I’m in a deep sleep, and am awakened by the sounds of cannonball fire and exploding cannonballs. The bright orange red flashes illuminate the darkness with unimaginable terror. I’ve seen buddies of mine hit with them, and they are engulfed in flames. You’re here this instant and gone in the next. What a horrible way to die and even more horrible to survive.
We’re surrounded and there is no way out. What are they waiting for? Do they want to terrorize us even more? Most of the men in the units that we were fighting with, are either hurt or dead.
Surrender? No! Soldiers like us would never surrender. Our hearts have been chiseled by war and death. If there is a doorway to life, a road to freedom, an escape, it is in the hands of Faith and destiny.
We are battle-hardened ghosts of war, and we’ll fight to the last man. We lie down in unmarked graves. Bodies broken, but Spirits unyielding. The light in our eyes gets extinguished, but not the Light in our Souls.
And if we are to be swept away by the tides of war, the enemy soldiers that slaughter us will at least never forget our bravery.
Will anyone else remember this day? Will anyone else remember us? Just our families and friends. And when they die there will be no one left to remember our great sacrifices. We’ll just be unknown soldiers, with a Cross for a gravestone. No one will know my name.
In the future will they even have a parade in our honor or a holiday?
“Are you alright?” asked Private Johnson.
“Yes,” I replied. “I was thinking. Maybe someday I’ll write about all of this.”
“Here you go,” said Private Johnson.
He handed me a pencil and paper. “What’s this for?”
“Me, Robert, and Joseph have written our last letters to our families. Hopefully, they won’t be our last. But if they are, we promised each other that whoever survived would make sure our families received them. I thought of you. Would you like to join us?”
I nodded my head. And took the pencil and paper.
“Do you vow to Almighty God to deliver these letters?”
“Yes… I do.”
“You better start writing it now,” said Private Johnson. “And when it’s finished, place it in your right pocket. This way… you know.”
I wrote, “Dear Margaret, the love of my life. I miss you and the kids so much. Give the kids my love and kisses.
I’ve been lucky… haven’t seen too much fighting. Right now, me and my unit are in a nice sunny field listening to the birds chirping. It’s a beautiful Sunday afternoon. The beautiful blue sky is a great gift from the Almighty. It reminds me of the Sunday afternoons, after Church, when we would go strolling hand in hand, and make plans for our life together.
We were playing poker earlier and I won a few bucks. You won’t believe this, but there are guys here that don’t even know how to play Whist.
When the war is over, I think we should move to California. Get a farm there. I’m tired of the cold winters in Boston. What do you think darling?
And don’t listen to those newspaper stories. They like to print sensational stories about the war so that people buy their papers.
Don’t worry dear. We will one day, once again, walk hand in hand and dream dreams that only those in love dream. I guarantee it.”
I watched as a few men ran by me, and the Sergeant yelled at me, “Come on, grab your musket. We’re being attacked.”
I had to finish the letter first. I wrote, “My Sergeant has just challenged me to a game of checkers for a buck. I can’t resist. This is easy money. I’ve beaten him before. I’ll send you another letter tomorrow… I promise. Give the kids a big hug and kiss for me. I love you.”
I placed the letter in my right pocket, grabbed my musket, and ran dutifully toward the sound of gunfire and perhaps eternity.
** ** ** ** ** ** ** **
I hope this letter finds you and your family well. I am sorry that it took so long for me to get it to you. By now you know that your husband is dead. But what you don’t know is that he fought bravely and valiantly for his country. He died a hero. And no one that dies for a just cause dies in vain. His name will be remembered.
Out of the four of us that took a vow to deliver these last letters, I am the only one to survive.
Out of a regiment of a thousand men, only two hundred of us survived. I was one of the lucky ones. Though not that lucky. That is why this letter took so long to get to you. I was badly hurt.
If you’re ever in Wilkes-Barre Pa. go to the Public Square and ask for the Johnson farm. That’s where you’ll find me. I would come to you Margaret, but I no longer have my legs. God Bless you and yours,
“Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turn’d, Nor hell a fury like a woman scorn’d.”
I’m not a very good-looking guy. And I have as a friend — my best friend — a guy that is extremely handsome. I’ve known him since High School. When he’s around, no girl even notices me. They don’t even look at me.
We both adored Karen. She’s beautiful, funny, and has the greatest personality. The type of girl you can’t wait for your parents to meet. But I didn’t have a chance. I couldn’t compete with Billy. He was too good looking.
But other than looks, I was the better man. I was two inches taller, and a better basketball and football player. Better than him at billiards and Ping-Pong and a much better swimmer. But that wasn’t good enough. Not for Karen.
I was very jealous when they started dating. The thought of the two of them together… I hated it. I couldn’t stand the thought of him touching her. Kissing her.
I wanted Karen to see that he wasn’t half the man I was. And I knew he couldn’t swim that well. We had gone swimming before together and he could barely keep up.
Me, Karen and Billy went into the small boat. There was a cloudy sky that greeted us. Its darkened eyes looked like they were squinting at us… daring us to go into the boat. We listened to the rain forecast on my cell phone.
Billy didn’t want to go.
I said, “Don’t be a scaredy cat.”
“Kevin, I’m not afraid,” said Billy. He looked annoyed.
I knew I had him. We were both nineteen and Karen was eighteen. And nineteen-year-old guys don’t like to be shown up in front of their girlfriends. I called him a scaredy cat. I carefully chose those words. I knew that they would elicit a certain response.
I was right. But I didn’t expect that he would actually get in the boat. I even felt a little nervous. A storm was brewing, and it could be dangerous. But Karen didn’t seem to be concerned. Maybe she didn’t believe the forecast? Maybe she wasn’t aware of the darkened clouds? Or maybe she was just naive?
We were half-a-mile from shore when it started pouring. The lightning lit up the sky and seemed as if it was shaking an ominous finger at us, and then there was a thunderous roar.
The small boat was being bullied and intimated by the waves and being tossed all around. We headed back. The wind was howling, and I slipped. I didn’t regain my balance, and the wind knocked me overboard. It felt like someone pushed me. I screamed.
Going over, I banged my head on the side of the boat and momentarily lost consciousness. I regained consciousness a few seconds later and found that Karen was pulling me up and back on board the boat.
What I didn’t realize at the time was that Billy jumped into the water. It was Billy that rescued me.
I looked around. Where was Billy? Where was Billy? He was gone.
** ** ** ** ** **
Karen and I eventually got married. Our first baby was a girl. The next one was a boy, and we named him Billy. I was the one that suggested that. Karen agreed.
I hated that we named him Billy. But what could I do? Kevin always blamed himself for what happened. Blamed himself for Billy drowning.
The night before Billy drowned, Billy and I had a date. He cancelled. He told me he wasn’t feeling well. I didn’t believe him. It happened twice before. I borrowed my dad’s car and started looking for him.
I went to all the places that he liked to go. All the places we went together. I saw him with her. They were eating at Dahlia’s restaurant. I waited in my car and followed them. Billy likes to drive fast, and it was hard for me to keep up. I was also crying so much that I could barely see. They went into a hotel.
I waited and waited. I was going to run him over with my car. But then I had a better idea. I heard the weather forecast for the next day. Stormy weather.
The weather was terrible the day we went into the boat. But I hated Billy so much that my hatred for him overcame my fear. I knew Billy didn’t swim that well. While we were in the boat, it started pouring… sheets of rain obscured our vision. It was as if fate was reaching out and lending me a hand.
Kevin had his back turned away. I went to push Billy. I wanted the sea to swallow him up. I hated him. He cheated on me. But at the last minute he saw me and moved. I ended up missing him but not Kevin. He plopped into the water. Billy jumped in to help him.
Billy was pushing Kevin up, and when Kevin got into the boat, he was groggy and coughing up water. Billy tried to get into the boat, but he was tired and struggling. I pushed Billy away with all my strength. He fell backwards and was gone.
Over the years what I did haunted me. I was always fearful that I would be caught. That’s the reason that I married Kevin. I was afraid he might piece it together. Might figure it out. I was the one that murdered Billy.
I’ve had plenty of nightmares since. I wake up screaming Billy’s name.
There is one recurring nightmare where I see him in the water and he’s struggling. It’s dark and the water looks cold. And he’s frightened. Before he goes under the water for one last time, he looks in my direction. Our eyes lock and then he’s gone.
Sometimes I wonder if Kevin knows. If in my nightmares he heard me confess or he figured it out. Maybe he named our son Billy just to torment me.
Now every time I hear my son’s name, Billy… I’m reminded.
I know that I’ll eventually see Billy again. I’ve come to believe that nothing escapes God’s Notice. And especially something like this. At the end of my rainbow Billy and God will be waiting. Billy wanting to be avenged, and a Just God Handing out Justice.
“Come on Billy,” shouted Kevin. “You can do better than that. If you want to make the swimming team… you’re going to have to swim better. You look like you’re drowning.”
New York City, it’s so nice and peaceful. Don’t get me wrong. That won’t last. In a couple of hours, it will be packed with people. Not only with people that live and work in New York, but with plenty of tourists. But right now… it’s nice and quiet. Have you ever seen the movie Breakfast at Tiffany’s? It was Truman Capote’s best story. The beginning of that movie is the way it looks and feels right now. And I love this time of day, very early morning… It’s like the calm before the storm.
I’m a writer. I’ve always been one. I got off to a rocky start. I was born and raised in a small town… Wilkes-Barre Pa. My parents and neighbors were all working class people.
And to dream of being a writer in that type of an environment is foolish. I was constantly reminded to be more practical. Very few people become successful writers and can make a living out of it. And the ones that do… are connected people. They’re not from Wilkes-Barre, Pa.
I started working at the age of sixteen. The job was mind numbing. Aren’t most jobs like that? My family needed money. By the time I was twenty I was married, and a year later my son was born. But I always felt like something was missing. I felt like a Big Mac with only one beef patty. And everyone knows that there are two beef patties in a Big Mac.
I dreamed of being a writer. I dreamed of living in New York. I wanted to paint beautiful landscapes with words.
In a way, Breakfast at Tiffany’s inspired me. The guy in the movie was also a writer, living in New York, and he wasn’t doing that well. I could empathize with that. But what I really loved was Johnny Mercer and Henry Mancini’s song, Moon River. Have you ever listened to the lyrics? “Moon River, wider than a mile I’m crossing you in style someday.” I knew that one day, that would be me. That I too, would be crossing in style one day. It was just around the bend.
I dreamed of being a writer. I dreamed of living in New York. But as one year collided into another, the dream became more distant… and distant. Was it fading away, or was I fading away?
I knew I would be better off in the Big Apple. I would live in Greenwich Village or the Upper West Side and be around other writers like me. But I was afraid. I had built a nice nest for myself – trap – and was too comfortable.
My marriage lasted for ten years. And it turned out that my wife was as unhappy as I was. We separated and eventually got divorced. She wound up marrying again and moved to California. Unfortunately, I wound up losing contact with my son. It happens. Shit always happens. If there is anything that is consistent in life… it’s that shit always happens. Shit always happens. And eventually these shitty slaps are disguised as bearable memories. That’s how we fool ourselves. That’s how our mind protects us from reality. As time goes on, we pretend that the stormy weather wasn’t that bad. We make them into pleasant, comfortable memories. We throw out the dirty bathtub water and are left with the more tolerable bathtub ring. But I continued to write. I knew that I would one day make it. It was just around the bend.
And I did make it. It took me almost fifteen years. I went from working class people in Wilkes-Barre Pa. to N.Y. and I am now surrounded by some of the wealthiest people in the world. I made it. Don’t ever give up on your dreams. I’m now lying down in the lap of luxury.
I love walking around New York. It’s great for a writer. As a writer you should never let the fire lose its flame. New York is so inspirational, and that inspiration fans your creativity. There are so many things to see and do. And I love watching people. And while I’m walking and watching people, I get inspired and start writing. Sometimes, I’ll even press my nose against a restaurant’s window and look inside. I have even, and you’re not going to believe this… walked from the South Street Seaport in lower Manhattan to Harlem.
I also love hanging out in parks – especially Central Park – and watching the kids play. They’re so happy and full of life. You have to realize that God also likes to see kids play and enjoy life. That’s why He made us like that.
I don’t know how far I’m going to walk today. My foot has been bothering me and it’s itching and slightly swollen. I had the same problem last year.
“How are you, Mr. Salkin?”
That’s me! I’m Harold Salkin. Everyone knows me in this neighborhood… 64th street, and second avenue. They’ve all read my writings, and the teens in the area call me The Writer. They’re always joking around with me.
Writing is a very strange business. There are times when I’ll jot down a note or two, and no more. And then there are times when I am so inspired, that the writing bursts forth, like water from a shower. It’s amazing.
Last week, a woman that I know who works at a grocery store, came up to me and said, “That comment you wrote about life was beautiful.” I turned all shades of red. There is no better praise, no better admiration, than when someone likes what you wrote. My muse and I love the attention. All I wrote was, “The desperation in my Soul is much deeper and more meaningful than the despair in my life. Live life, nourishing and taking care of your Soul first.”
After she paid me that compliment I was blooming for days. I was so happy. And I started thinking about my own Soul, and my own journey and the journey of others. Our Souls are an everlasting perfume, a fragrant aroma that rises to the gates of Heaven and Beyond. Very few of us grasp its real Value.
I feel tired. And my foot hurts. That looks like a nice bench over there and it’s in the shade, and I’ll have pigeons for company. I like pigeons. They’re like me. They spend most of their time and life pecking around and looking for food to eat.
I’m tired. The bench that I slept on last night wasn’t that comfortable and my foot was hurting me. I think I’ll take a nap. But before I do, let me take out my chalk and write something inspirational: “Your dreams are around the bend,” by Harold Salkin, The Writer.
Does time really heal all wounds? Or does it just prolong the agony? For me… I never really experienced that healing process. The pain subsided somewhat… but it was still there. Lurking underneath the surface. And with the slightest provocation… I would lash out.
It was the beast in me.
I couldn’t control it.
I had a Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde personality. Though to tell you the truth… I was never really a Dr. Jekyll. I was a lighter version of Mr. Hyde.
I didn’t realize it at the time… but the woman that helped to raise me, broke through my defensive shield. I too, like her, wound up disliking people and not trusting anyone.
In prison I was constantly in trouble. And some of the prisoners liked that and were taking notice. I was making a name for myself.
These guys were people that were connected. People that could help me when I got out. People that could use a guy like me.
They introduced me to a new Family.
I was twenty-three when I got out of prison. And the Empire State welcomed me. The five families welcomed me. I did my first hit six months later with a guy named Auggie. He was an old timer. He watched while I pulled the trigger.
I was amazed. I didn’t feel anything at all.
No sympathy for the victim. No remorse. I was a natural.
That was my first hit and when I got home, I took off my black belt and made a notch in it with my knife.
I decided that whenever I would do a hit, I would wear my Lucky black belt. And I would only wear it for those occasions. And for every hit… I made a mark in the belt.
Most of my hits were done in America. But I did a few in Europe and two in Canada and one in South America.
Vanity of vanities. Isn’t that what the Good Book Teaches? Everything is transient. It’s fleeting. Our lives are like a wisp of smoke… no sooner seen and then gone.
But people are going to remember me. I’m a legend already.
Maybe I’m too proud? But I’m one of the best at what I do. And I get paid accordingly.
I never knew anything about the mark. I don’t know if they’re married or if they have a family. Most of the time, I don’t even know why they’re being targeted.
None of that matters. All I need is a name and photo. And any information that can help me carry out the hit.
If they give me your name and photo… you’re as good as dead.
I never fail!
There was only one time that I actually talked to the mark.
I was sitting in a restaurant and watching him. I was eating Lasagna. And I thought to myself, I hope he has a good meal. That’s going to be his last.
He got up from his table and joined me. I couldn’t believe it.
He said, “Ti piacerebbe un bicchiere di vino? Odio vedere qualcuno senza vino.”
I responded, “I love wine with my meals too. When I see people eating and they don’t have a glass of wine with the meal… It’s because they have no real appetite for the finer things in life. They have no class. But I have business to take care of. I never mix wine with business. Only with pleasure.”
He smiled and went back to his table and rejoined the woman he was dining with.
He seemed to be enjoying her company. He had a belly-shaking laugh. And she was an older woman with silver braids, who spoke softly, with shrieks of laughter.
I finished eating and waited for them outside the restaurant. I was across the street. I looked up.
It was a moonlit night that sparkled with stars. And it reminded me of when I was a kid and would look out my bedroom window and marvel at the vast universe.
And as I got older, I wondered… who am I?
Nobody.
As insignificant as a grain of sand on the beach.
I followed them for a couple of blocks.
They were walking back to his apartment. But they made a fatal mistake. They walked down a deserted street.
It felt surreal.
I felt like I was in a theatre watching a movie, and something horrible was about to happen.
I quickened my pace. I was now much more focused and intense.
I could see the darkness surrounding them, and their voices and laughter seemed muffled.
The smell of death was in the air.
I was a lion stalking its prey. Ready for the kill.
Bang! Bang! I killed him and the woman with him. Both shot in the back of the head.
Normally, I just kill the mark. But this man was giving testimony to a secret grand jury. It involved the mob’s infiltration of the unions in New York.
An informant, one of the many that the mob has, gave them that information. The Hit had to be done right away.
The woman… She was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Shit happens. That’s been my story… all my life.
It’s been many years since my first hit. The summer of my life is almost over. Now all I see is winter ahead. And those that I’ve killed are haunting me.
But I’m not a cruel man. I don’t know why they’re haunting me. It was better that they died at my hand.
They never see me coming. They never see me at all. They experience no fear. No regret. No pain.
There is no idle chatter between us. No one is begging for their life. They’re not pleadingly searching my eyes with theirs for a glint of hope or mercy. And their fearful eyes are not met with a steely gaze of indifference.
Not a bad deal.
They don’t die, with me, their killer, being the last thing that they see. And they don’t die frightened.
Not a bad deal at all.
At the end of our lives how many of us will be able to say the same thing, as the Grim Reaper comes knocking at our hospital door. And he will be coming… don’t kid yourself.
Sometimes the marks die while they’re laughing or with a smile on their face. One shot to the back of the head and it’s all over.
I’m like the Grim Reaper in 14th century Europe during the Black Death, which killed around a third of the population.
No heart. No compassion. No mercy. I don’t feel anything as I pull the trigger. I don’t feel anything as I end your life.
He left the bar.
There weren’t too many people around. I caught up to him and shot him once in the back of the head. He never saw me coming. I was like a thief in the night. But I didn’t rob him of his possessions… I robbed him of his life.
One minute he was here… and the next he’s gone. I hope I die like that. That’s better than being sick and tortured in a hospital bed.
That’s better than having all kinds of things attached to you and shitting into a diaper.
That’s better than having a fake hand of hope being extended to you and at the last minute it’s pulled away.
That’s better than them keeping you alive for another pay day. While your dignity and honor are being humiliated.
That’s better than being surrounded by vultures, and you’re just another bed number to them.
Next!
I tossed the gun into the street. I took off the gloves and I stuffed them into my pockets.
When I got home… I burned the gloves. There was no physical evidence linking me to the crime.
I took off my black belt and notched my fiftieth hit into it.
Not seeing a storm coming is not a deterrent. And ignorance is not really bliss. The storm still advances.
The gang members came right to our front door. There were ten of them and they all had golf clubs. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. Golf clubs.
And all of this because of a girl? And I knew the girl. It was Gladys.
I remember watching her one day while I was inside a pool hall. She was putting makeup on, and she had the kind of precision Michelangelo would envy.
But her real artistry was seduction. While putting on her lipstick… She was smiling and pouting her lips seductively. It was all part of her performance. She knew the guys were watching.
Since Ancient times men have been fighting over women. And beautiful women like Cleopatra had led to the downfall of powerful men like Julius Caesar and Marc Antony.
But Gladys wasn’t that beautiful. No Cleopatra.
And I knew it really wasn’t about her.
It was really about pride. With guys… it always is. The gang set the boundaries, and the girls were part of their turf. We were told to keep away from their women.
The gang didn’t like being ignored. It was an insult. It’s a tribal mentality going back to the beginning of time. The neighborhood was their turf and the women part of their property.
There were only seven of us and we stood on the stoop. We all grabbed whatever we could. I grabbed a baseball bat.
I sensed a shift. We were standing on dry ground and the gang members looked like they were standing on quicksand.
The gang didn’t look too confident. They didn’t look too comfortable. They weren’t used to anyone standing up to them. They looked like a balloon with all the air let out.
Perhaps they thought we would be cowering behind the front door. Too afraid to come out. Or hiding underneath our beds.
But we were the real deal.
And it was too late. The gang couldn’t retreat. It was a matter of pride.
The weightlifting guy didn’t even give them a chance to retreat. He ran into the crowd with a dumbbell in his hand and started swinging.
It was on.
It didn’t last long. Only a few minutes and the cops came. Some of my guys were writhing on the ground in pain. The gang also had guys that were hurt.
I was sent to a maximum-security place for youthful offenders. I had hit one of the gang members over the head with my bat. And broke another one’s jaw.
I’m just a loser. But I wasn’t born that way. I inherited a bad hand. Couldn’t the institution that I was living in find me better adoptive parents?
I learned early in life not to be a doormat, but a pointed nail. And if you messed with me… you messed with the wrong person.
At eighteen I was involved in a fight and knifed the person I was fighting with. I was sentenced to five years in prison.
I’ve gone down many streets alone. There was no one there to hold my hand. I didn’t know what to expect in prison. I was never in prison before.
But I was pleasantly surprised. The weightlifting guy was there. We were reunited. And another one of my brothers was there… Carlton. He was making a name for himself in the drug dealing business.
But with Carlton I wondered who would be victorious: Would he make it to the top of the drug dealing empire, or would he succumb to the drugs he used… and overdose and die?
I took to prison like a goldfish takes to water. And why not. I was taught by those that excelled in cruelty how to be cruel and vicious. I was in my element. In my pond.
I didn’t realize it at the time, but I was descending into a darkened hole. And the further away I was from the Light… the harder it would be for me to find my way back.
Choices? Isn’t that what life is made of? And whether these choices were really mine… my destiny or I was fate’s puppet, or the combination of both interacting in a quizzical manner too complicated for me to understand… I was going in only one direction. Downward.
Descending into a world of violence. Descending into a world of madness. Descending into a world of terror.
There came a point where I could descend no further. I was the violence, the madness, and the terror.
I took to prison like a goldfish takes to water. But I was no goldfish.
The weightlifting guy told me that Angel was shot and killed by drug dealers. And when he got out… he was going to visit them. I told him I would tag along.
I served all five years. I didn’t get any time off for good behavior. The weightlifting guy had three more years to go.
But I doubted that he would ever get out.
His original sentence was for only four years. But more years were added on due to his violent altercations with prison guards and others.
I didn’t get a chance to say good-bye to him. At the time he was in solitary confinement. The hole.
Isn’t it strange how life happens? The way it unfolds. Mice and men making plans that never materialize.
That is the one consistent thing in a world of inconsistencies. The one certainty, in an uncertain world.
Shattered dreams and plans littering the highway of one’s hopes. That you can count on.
How does one become a killer? How does one become a hit man for the mob? How does one go against all the norms in a society, and embrace that which most people would abhor? Is it a slow transition? Or do you just leap into it?
For me it was a slow transition.
“Mommy” and “Daddy” didn’t want me around anymore. They were frightened of me. They were afraid of the monster that they helped to create. I was sent to live in a group home in Brooklyn.
They had all kinds of kids there. And some were a couple of years older than me. And some came from very abusive homes.
Homes where the parents were very dysfunctional. Either too much alcohol or drug abuse or parents that just didn’t care. And they carried the scars from living in those kinds of environments.
Carter was crazy. He was the oldest one in the group home, and he would have invading parties at night. He would assemble a few kids and go into someone’s room and terrorize that person. Sometimes they would beat them up. Most of the time Carter just enjoyed seeing the fear in his victims’ eyes.
Have you ever had a group of guys grab a hold of you, while a weightlifting freak is pounding on your leg, in the same spot, until you nearly passed out from the pain. And if you ever told anyone… the next night would be even worse
I have. It happened to me.
And all of this was happening while the fat assed Counselor was asleep in his room.
More than likely, he was too afraid to come out. Or he just didn’t care.
Or maybe he knew that the victim would be too scared to say anything. And if no one said anything… he didn’t have anything to worry about. His bosses would never know. They would never find out.
It’s like the crime in New York City. Most victims don’t report it. And if they don’t report it… those in charge have no problem in not talking about it. Let’s keep it quiet. No one will ever find out. It doesn’t matter that people are being harmed.
This big fat sloppy kid named Dwight was abused the most. And he was the type that didn’t fight back.
You could see the sorrow in his eyes the next day. After a night of being intimidated and abused. He had nowhere to go. The group home was his home. There was nowhere for him to run.
And he better not say anything. Better not get anyone into trouble. There was nowhere to hide.
And night would eventually be descending. People mutate into ghouls at night. And under the cover of darkness do many bad things.
The Counselor would be soundly asleep. No one to help. Best to keep quiet.
Sadness. Sadness in his eyes. This was the closest he had ever come to having a family. But this was no family. And he couldn’t understand why… he was being abused.
Fear. Fear in his eyes. As night turns into day… day turns into night. He was left wondering what was going to happen as darkness illuminated the night sky. What terror would it bring.
Like the little boy being bullied in school… There were no adults around to help.
And of course, I would join Carter and the gang in those raiding parties. If I didn’t… I would become their target.
One afternoon I was sitting in the living room and watching TV. The guys ran past me and told me to go outside with them.
What happened?
We were about to fight. It was over a girl. One of the guys in the group home offended a gang member’s girlfriend. And they came to visit us that afternoon. And the guy that did the offending wasn’t even there.
I knew that there were problems with the local gang. We had already been warned to stay away from their gals. We had a few skirmishes.
The pimps on Fulton Street in Brooklyn… also warned us. They didn’t like us messing with their prostitutes.
I remember them telling us, as me and my two friends were surrounded by several pimps, that they felt it would be healthier for us… if we messed with the prostitutes a few blocks away. Their competition.
But my weight lifting brother from the group home didn’t like the way he was being talked to.
My eyes were practically rolling to the back of my head. We were about to be killed. And he was talking back to them. I was only sixteen. Too young to die.
I looked at Angel… my other brother. But instead of him joining me and looking for a way out… he started talking back to the pimps too. And I noticed that one of the pimps, the one that was in the background, carried a cane, with the head of a snake on top of it. The snake was made of metal and thick. And it looked really heavy.
Fortunately, cooler heads prevailed. The pimps, realizing that my two buddies were crazy, let us go with a warning. The pimps speaking to us… looked at the guy with the cane. It was obvious… he was in charge.
I learned a few things that night. Everyone is afraid. Except guys that are crazy. And I also learned that it was good to have your own brand. Your own Signature. The pimp with the cane had his own signature. It was the heavy metal snake on the cane.
And you better believe that the people in his business… know him by his signature.
I wondered how many men and women the pimp either intimidated or beat with that cane. How many pleas for mercy did that snake hear? How do you even become a man like that?
Fictional stories by John Saccone 