The CD Chronicles: Speedy Thief

Central District Chronicles

The Speedy Thief – Version I

With a combination of caution and opportunity his eyes gleamed at me even before I walked up. No words were necessary; his actions - quick shuffling and darting eyes -spoke all the truth needed. The rest of the conversation, spoken too quickly to comprehend sometimes, was simply a slow confession. “I got, I got eighty dollars in Angus Steaks right here. I’ll give them to you for just twenty dollars.” Leaning towards his thin frame hunched over the bags I saw that he was telling the truth. Underneath a bag of Fritos Scoops were shining plastic wrapped packages of blood red meat with the black seal of certified Angus Beef. My opinion of him raised ever so slightly and with it my curiosity. Fighting the better judgment screaming in my mind I chose this stop and wait with this man growing into his shadow.

Our paths would not have crossed if he chosen the same action as I did. “I would have stopped down there,” he said gesturing to the bus shelter fifty yards south of where we stood. Under the darkening sky, figures moved around the shelter. Fellow travelers perhaps, but in his mind they were something more nefarious. “Gang bangers. I didn’t want to have to deal with that.” Spying their movements and fearing he may have been heard, the Thief picked up the bags and moved into the bus shelter. Before moving in and settling myself on the bench on the opposite side of him, I threw a final glance back at these ruffians and hooligans lying in wait.

A pause followed as we both stared out of the traffic buzzing by on the street. The Thief was disturbed by these few seconds of silence and started rocking back and forth to settle himself down. Those movements alone could not contain the energy of coming down or off of whatever was circulating through his system and out spewed secrets, which no sane man should admit to a stranger. From one of the bags he pulled out a beer bottle and using the bench popped it open. Amber foam spurted out alarming the Thief who held the bottle up switching it from hand to hand. The explosion slowed down and he hurriedly drank the suds to keep more from escaping. Smacking his lips and using his clothes to wipe his hands off, he revealed some of tricks his trade.

“It was too easy doing this. I walked in grabbed a little red hand basket and walked around filling it up.” As he spoke the pacing of his rocking slowed. “After I filled the bags, I showed the girl at the front a receipt I found in the parking lot.” I was impressed by this detail; most people would not have been so throral. “You know what the girl at the counter said,” he beamed with pride. “’Thanks and come again.’ You bet I will.”

“There was a deli chicken in there but I ate that.” On the opposite side of the street a van slowed down to wait for the light to change. The woman driving had the window down and the Thief called out his pitch to her. “Eighty dollars in Angus steaks for only twenty dollars.” She waved him off as the light changed and she speed away. Peering down the street he continued, “I’ve got to take the bus down to Capitol Hill to drop this stuff off unless I can sell it first.” Then a thought seemed to grip him. I imagined his mind journeying up from a deep, dark, spiral with moments of clarity as the light filtered in. “Why do I have to drop this off?” He stopped rocking and sat straight up. “I mean, he’s got a car.” The pendulum had moved in his mind, decisions and indecisions with each swing. “He can come and get it,” he snapped his fingers excitedly, “and-and that’s what I told him.” The dark arch of the spiral enveloped him and he sank down admitting, “but I’ve got to get down there and give this stuff to him because he’s gonna pay me.” The Thief exhaled slowly and said almost under his breath, “I hope he pays me. I need him to pay me.”

His next admission caused it all to make sense. “I’ve been on crank all this weekend. Methamphetimines. Speed.” Considering his behavior this was not a surprise. At the mention of these drugs the shakes and rocking gripped him again. “My buddy wanted me to do some crack and I was like, ‘No sir, no thank you.’ I’ve done that shit before and it’s just bad news.” From this point all the information given were pieces in the puzzle of a life that had become a shadow. “I used to be a chef. Took a twelve-week course at the community college to improve my skills. But I’ve been out of work since then. I have interviews lined up. I’m just waiting and hoping.” A long sigh escaped him relieving the physical memories of a past that still appears to torture him and with it the shaking and rocking stopped.

“Why do I keep doing these things that I do?”

I had no answer, but in the distance I saw the bus to Capital Hill approaching.