An error.

Last night, while driving home from work, I came around a bend and saw a cop waiting for speeders in the dark. I was doing almost 50 when I was supposed to be doing 35, and when I passed him I felt my heart thumping while I watched him in my rear view mirror. He didn't leave his spot, but I saw another cop sitting at an intersection a few moments away from where the first cop was sitting. The light turned yellow, but I had time, so I drove through the intersection. I thought I may have seen the light turn red as I was almost through it, and I worried the second cop would follow me. I watched my rear view mirror, and sure enough, he turned in my direction and started heading towards me.

The cop was far enough behind me that when I followed a curve in the road, he briefly disappeared from my mirror. I considered making a quick turn into a residential area, but I got worried about how I would explain myself when the cop started asking the standard five thousand questions about where I was from and where I was going. I kept driving, and when he got close, I knew it was only a matter of time before he pulled me over for something.

When he did turn his disco lights on, there wasn't a shoulder for me to pull over onto, so I just stopped in the lane I was in. I used to immediately fish out my wallet, insurance, and registration, but I heard they hate that, so I opened my window and kept my hands on the wheel where he could see them.

"You're being pulled over for driving with expired plates," he said, "Let me see your license."

"Oh, I knew about that," I said, reaching over and fumbling through my glove box. They had sent me the thing in the mail, but I hadn't taken care of it yet, thinking I still had a little bit of time. I tend to do most things I'm supposed to at the last minute.

"I don't need to see your registration," he said, "I already know it's expired. It's been expired for 21 days. I just need your license."

"Oh," I said, pulling my wallet out, "I thought it expired, like, today."

"It expires on your birthday," he said, taking my license. "Find your proof of insurance while I run this."

As he walked away, I thought, On my birthday? That hasn't happened yet.

I looked through my glove box, pulling out all sorts of receipts, old insurance cards, and old registration cards. I noticed a burnt CD sitting on my passenger seat was labeled BONGZILLA - STASH, so I started dropping papers on top of it, in case he could use that as an excuse to search my car. I didn't have anything I shouldn't have had, but they've been known to intentionally make a complete mess when they toss the car. The most recent insurance card I had expired a few months ago, and I started rehearsing in my head how I was going to tell them that GEICO completely fucking sucks and doesn't send you proof of insurance unless you request it, even though I paid my insurance last night, which was true.

"Mr. Sailor," he said when he came back, "I've made an error. Your plates aren't expired."

"Oh," I said, taking my license back, "That's what I thought."

"I apologize. Have a good night."

"Thanks," I chuckled, "You too."

In other cop news, I got a call this morning from the detective assigned to my case when I got robbed a few months ago. They caught one of the guys a while back, and I guess he's been locked up ever since. He was originally charged with strong arm robbery, which is a 15-year felony, but made a deal where he pleaded no contest to larceny from a person, a 10-year felony. It turns out the little fucker was a juvenile, so he's being held at a juvenile facility until he turns 17, at which point they transfer him somewhere or something, I don't really know. I'm sort of surprised about the outcome, because generally I don't feel that cops really do that much to actually solve or stop crime, and I almost definitely would not have even reported the incident if somebody hadn't witnessed it and called the cops on my behalf. Now I just find myself wishing I had any faith in the corrections aspect of the criminal justice system. I'm worried that the kid will come out an ever bigger thug than the one he went in as, but I've been wrong about other things, so hopefully I'm wrong about this, too.

Jacked at gunpoint.

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Worthless, thieving scumbags.

Every single time I stock my desk at work with office supplies, somebody comes along and takes everything. It usually stays there for a couple days, I use a little of it, and then one day I come in and and it's absolutely all gone.

My desk is in the corner, semi-secluded. Unless it's the day shift person taking my shit and sticking it in their half of the desk, which they lock, or the day shift person at the desk next to mine doing the same thing, somebody has to make a trip to take my stuff. Wherever they're coming from, it's pretty unlikely that they're saving themselves much time at all by stealing all my stuff, because if they're walking across the department, they may as well go to where the supplies are kept.

I can't even put into words how much this pisses me off. Somebody with absolutely no consideration for other people is wasting my time to save a negligible amount of their own. I don't want to have to lock my fucking desk. I shouldn't have to.

The saddest part of this is that I know whoever this person is does this to everybody, wherever they go, all the time. Fucking scumbag!

Today, when I found all my stuff gone again, instead of restocking the desk in the traditional manner, I wrapped my stuff in plastic and hid it in the dust-bunny infested space between the desk and the wall. Now my desk will be a mystery to the thief; when they come to steal my stuff, they'll wonder how I do any work with no supplies, and then they'll have to go elsewhere.

Paul Jacobson tries to rip me off.

When I was 20, I did a short lived zine called undumb. It was filled mostly with the kind of stuff I write on this blog, except with more punk rock, and drawings to go with most of the stories. I only did two issues, the second of which made the MAXIMUMROCKNROLL top ten, which I thought was completely awesome even if my favorite songwriter ever didn't think so highly of the rag. Honestly, I never picked it up regularly, and I'm sure I would have been just as happy if I was mentioned on the third page of any magazine available at any decent bookstore.

I was lazy, so when I printed my zine, instead of just copying it myself, I'd drop it off at one of the closest office stores, which was still about half an hour away since I lived in the middle of nowhere. The first issue I dropped off and picked up with no problem, even though they didn't collate it like they were supposed to. The second issue I dropped off with no problem, but when I tried to pick it up, the asshole manager figured he could run a scam on me and steal some extra pocket money for himself.

I had been playing music with my friend Radical Ryan and a drummer who I had just met that day. When we got tired of playing, they came along with me to go pick up my zine.

When we went to the counter, the middle aged guy behind it ignored us for a minute before asking, "Can I help you?" I already had a feeling from his condescending tone and the looks he was giving us that he was going to be a douche. Radical Ryan was a pretty straight-laced looking dude, the drummer was wearing a shirt with the sleeves cut off that said something about punk rock, and I was wearing the usual glue in the hair, rounding out my ensemble with punk band logo patches safety-pinned to my clothes. The guy behind the counter wore a button-up shirt with a collar and a tie underneath his work-issue vest. His name tag said PAUL JACOBSON - MANAGER - COPY DEPARTMENT.

"Yeah, I need to pick up some copies," I said.

"I see. What company is it for?" he asked with a smirk, as if I could only be a jobless hooligan not working for anybody. I was, but there was no reason for him to be a dick about it. I had dropped them off under my name, but the originals had been in a folder with a software company logo on it. I told him they were for that company.

Paul Jacobson looked under the counter and found my copies. He brought out a calculator and did some math, and then told me my total. It was fifteen dollars higher than it had been the last time, and fifteen dollars higher than the total they gave me when I had dropped the new issue off.

"That's not right," I said, and told him how much it should be.

"Hmm...Let me see..." he said, punching in the numbers again, "No, no, I was right."

"That's not the price I paid last time for the exact number of copies, and that's not the price I was given when I dropped these off."

"So, you won't be taking the copies, then?"

"No, I will be taking them, but I'm taking them at the correct price."

"I can't let you take them for less than the price I gave you. That's store policy," he told me. He punched the numbers into the calculator again, shook his head, and gave me the high price.

"That's not right at all," I said.

"Well, here, you take the calculator and try it. I have other things to do."

He turned his back on us, and I typed the numbers. Sure enough, the price I came up with $15 less than the one he gave me. On a whim, I calculated what it would have cost me if I had the zine printed on bigger paper. It was the price Paul Jacobson gave me.

"This guy is trying to rip me off," I said.

"Yeah," Radical Ryan said, "He's busted."

Paul Jacobson ignored us for a few minutes and then finally came back to where we were standing.

"Did you figure it out?" he asked.

"Yeah," I said, "You've been trying to add it up as if I were using legal size, I'm using letter size paper."

"Oh," he said, barely trying to look surprised, "My mistake."

Even if Paul Jacobson wasn't a total condescending asshole to us the entire time, I'd still have an incredibly hard time buying the notion that the manager of the copy department would have made such a ridiculous mistake. He assumed that I was some dumb kid who wouldn't be able to know what he was up to, and he probably assumed I was going to pay in cash and that he would be able to pocket the money.

Kids stealing bikes.

Between fourth and fifth grade, I lived near a single mother with three filthy children. My siblings and I were somewhat afraid of the mother, because she could often be heard screaming obscenities at the top of her lungs early in the morning. I'll never forget riding my bike past their house one morning and hearing her scream, "I spent all fucking morning making that fucking oatmeal and you're going to fucking eat it!" like a completely crazy person. Her public persona was much more subdued, and she never screamed at any of us, and we often would hang out with her dirty, sticky children.

Early one morning we were sitting in the living room of our house, and heard somebody in the back yard. We pulled the curtain open and saw one of the dirty kids riding away on one of our bikes. We went outside and found that they had taken all three of our bikes, as well as our little kick scooter. We walked over to their house, where they had all of our bikes in their back yard. We assumed it to be a juvenile prank, but in retrospect, I wonder if they were thieves and were going to sell them. Their family were no strangers to being shady as hell, and once when their dad came to pick the kids up in his semi-truck, he ran over our mailbox. We didn't know who did it, but one of the kids later told me who it was.

I was also a bike thief during this period.

I only stole one bike, and I didn't actually intend to keep it for more than a few hours. I couldn't really bring it home without my parents wondering where the hell it came from.

There was another kid who lived near me, and we had decided to trade my kick scooter for his bike. Like so many bad business transactions that kids make, the deal fell through, and I decided I would just take his bike for a while. I planned on bringing it back to him later, but I had only had it for about an hour when the kid came back with his dad in his pickup truck. I didn't say anything, and neither did they, I just walked the bike to the truck, where they loaded it in and drove away.

"My bike is gone."

When I got home the other night, I noticed my girlfriend's bike parked in front of the garage, in plain view at the end of the driveway. I thought to myself, that seems like kind of a bad idea considering the two random weirdos in front of our house the other day . I figured she knew what she was doing, though, so I didn't bother moving it.

I guess I probably should have.

When I left for work the next day, I noticed the bike was gone, but I assumed she had moved it. Later in the evening, though, she sent me a message.

My bike is gone.

I suggested she partake in a Big Adventure, but she wasn't too interested in that. It sucks, if she's unwilling to go on a zany, cross-country adventure to find it, her only other real option is to get a new bike. You live, you learn, I guess. What unnerves me is the idea of somebody walking along the side of our house to reach the bike. I have to wonder if they saw the bike from the sidewalk, or if they spotted it while creeping around the house, looking for other shit to steal.

Early on in high school, our bus driver came up with some excuse not to pick up my sister and I at our house, instead picking us up where our road met another, busier road. It was about a quarter of a mile from our house to the bus stop, so we opted to ride bikes there, and hide them in a line of trees while we were at school.

On one particular day, my sister rode her bike and parked it in the trees, and for some reason (a flat tire, perhaps?) I walked. When we were approaching our bus stop, I saw a guy riding away on what appeared to be my sister's bike.

"Hey, that guy stole your bike," I said as we got off the bus.

"Shut up, no, he didn't," my sister said, completely incredulous.

When we reached the trees where the bike was supposed to be hidden, she realized I was right.

"My bike is gone!"

"Yeah, that's what I told you," I said flatly while she burst into tears.

We walked home and told our parents, who made us take a futile trip to the gas station on the corner to ask if they saw a guy ride by on a bike.

"No, sorry, we haven't seen any bikes."

Bike thieves are douche bags.

Crackheads, stay off of my porch!

Yesterday, my girlfriend and I were sitting on the couch in the front room. It was hot out, and we had the windows open. I was playing some video games, and she was playing with her laptop.

"What's up?" I heard, coming from outside.

I turned around and there was a somewhat dirty guy with dreadlocks on our porch, walking towards the door.

"What's up?" I said through the window.

He said "What's up" again and stood at the door for a moment. When he realized neither of us was going to get off the couch, he came to the window.

"What's up?" he said once more.

"What's up?" I asked.

"Hey, let me tell you about my situation. My car is broken down, and I'm here from out of town. I'm from north of here. I have my mom with me, she's from south of here. Now, my mom is a diabetic, and..."

"Sorry, man, I'm broke," I said, cutting him off.

"OK," he said, "I'm sorry for bothering you."

"Good luck," I told him as he walked off my porch.

When I'm out, I almost always give money to whoever asks me for some. I know a lot of those people are going to spend it on feeding a habit, but who am I to judge? Ideally, they should be getting help somewhere, but life isn't so ideal. If I can help somebody make it through the day, I'll do what I can, even if they give me a line of bullshit about their car being broken or out of gas (I can't count how many times I've heard that one). My contact with these people is enough that for a brief period, I even contracted a case of the dreaded bum disease.

I draw the line, however, at people coming to my home and asking for money. I don't need mysterious people showing up at my door asking for money, and I sure as hell don't need them coming back again because it worked before.

Later, at around 2:00 AM, we went to the 24-hour laundromat and dropped our clothes off. When we came back, there was some lady sitting on the little strip of grass between the sidewalk and the street directly in front of the house, right next to our driveway. We walked in through the side door, like we always do, and avoided having to walk past her. When we left to go back to the laundromat, she was gone.

I'm sure it was probably a coincidence, but two random weirdos in front of our place on the same day makes me kind of uneasy.

Maybe the dude with the dreadlocks heard the reggae coming out of the stereo and thought it was some kind of invitation to come beg for money. Maybe the lady sitting on the grass was taking a midnight stroll and just happened to stop in front of the house.

Or maybe the dude with the dreadlocks was scouting for places to rob for crack money, and when he saw the various gadgets and toys we had, he told the lady to hang out and see when we're home and when we're not. The rational part of my brain tells me that's it's kind of blatant and stupid, but the paranoid part tells me I should be on my toes. The paranoid part of my brain tells me that crack heads tend to be blatant and stupid, but the rational part of my brain tells me that it's difficult to even look out the window without seeing a cop drive by, which hopefully makes it unlikely that somebody is going to get away with stealing my stuff. I don't have a lot of faith in the police, but I think their heavy presence in my area, right next to a college, should make my home an unattractive target.

Crackheads, stay the fuck off of my porch. You make me paranoid.

Been caught stealing.

When I was 20, I picked up a young hitchhiker. He was only a couple years older than me, a college drop out, and an anarchist. He told me that in 1999, he had only spent $99, and he was incredibly proud of that. He had been on the road for a couple years, "mostly partying," but occasionally stopping to do activist work. The majority of his meals were shoplifted from grocery stores.

"It's all about being confident, man," he told me, "If you just walk in there like you're not doing anything wrong, and stick something in your pocket, nobody will know. I've never been caught. I've been doing this for years."

"Maybe I should try that."

"Yeah," he said, "It's a great way to say 'fuck you' to the system."

Encouraged by his words, I decided to give it a shot. I went to a grocery store, selected two fine avocados, and walked through the aisles with them. It took me a few minutes to gain the courage to stuff them in my pockets, and when I did, I could practically hear my heart thumping in my chest.

Be cool, I thought, be confident. Remember what the dude said.

I started walking out of the store, ears ringing from the high volume of blood being pumped through my body. I was sure somebody was going to stop me.

They didn't.

Shoplifting turned out to be an incredible thrill. After getting away with stealing avocados, I found myself stealing from grocery stores regularly. My friends and I would go into a store, swipe snack size bags of chip, box drinks, and other convenient items, and go have a picnic. Shoplifted food, even when not very good, was excellent because it was free. Soon, we began stealing other things. We didn't steal anything big or valuable, only silly little knick knacks and novelties. I liked to steal paperback books. I think the most expensive and large item I stole was a giant fighting robot model kit. My friends were sure I was going to get caught when I walked out of the toystore with it under my sweatshirt. The adrenaline rush from that heist was incredible.

We never felt bad about it because of the anarchist's smug rationalization: stealing from big chain stores is OK, because they are The Man, and they are always stealing from you and oppressing the working man. Filled with righteous (if not overly idealistic) indignation, my friends and I continued to steal stuff unabated for about a month after I picked up the hitchhiker.

And then I got busted.

I was on my way to visit a girl who lived a couple hours away from me. I was hungry, and had money, but knew there was free food at any grocery store. I picked a superstore in a chain that I had had luck with before.

I should have known they would be watching me. I was out in the middle of nowhere, and stuck out like a sore thumb. It was like being in the twilight zone, and every single person was whiter than myself and a little bit deformed. The first people I saw when I walked in were a pair of what I assume were brothers, because they shared one key feature. One was an incredibly obese man, the other was abnormally short and stumpy. Both had the exact same face.

I walked the aisles and picked up a can of pre-cooked macaroni and cheese with a pop-top lid, a pack of juice boxes, and a box of plastic silverware. The aisles of food were crowded, so I started perusing their other items. As I walked, I ripped open the silverware box and took out a fork, leaving the rest of the box in a pile of toys. I kept walking and removed one of the juice boxes from the pack, dropping the rest on a shelf. Going back to the toy section, I briefly considered stealing a yo-yo before I decided I didn't have enough time to work the package open. I stuffed the macaroni, juice box, and fork in my pockets and began to walk out.

As I headed for the door, I heard a numerical code announced on the intercom.

Fuck, I thought, I wonder if that's for me. Do they know? Should I put this stuff back?

I shook off my fear. They never know, I thought.

Seconds after I walked out of the store, I heard somebody behind me.

"Excuse me, sir, we need to talk to you about some merchandise that wasn't paid for."

Fuck.

I turned around and was escorted back inside by three large guys. They were very calm, and seemed to be making an effort to keep what was happening from being known to other customers.

"There's a hallway on the right," one of them told me as he walked a few feet behind me, "Go into the first door."

They took me into the security office and asked if I had any needles or anything. I told them I didn't, and they frisked me down, finding the stolen goods. They asked me if I had done anything like this before, and I told them that I hadn't. I told them I was a college student (which was true) and that I had a little money (which was true), but not enough that I wanted to spend it on food (also true). They ran a quick background check and found that I didn't have any kind of record.

"It's store policy that shoplifters will be charged ten times the cost of the stolen merchandise, but no less than $50 and no more than $250. The total cost of your items was $2.32, so we have to charge you the minimum, which is $50."

The guy explaining the situation to me didn't seem angry, and actually seemed kind of sad to be busting me for it.

"It's our option to call the police or not," he told me, "but given the understandability of the situation, we're not going to call them. However, if you get caught stealing in any of our stores again, it is our policy that the police will be called."

He wrote a number on a piece of paper and handed it to me.

"If you have any problems coming up with the $50, you can call this number and they can help you work out a payment plan."

They let me go, and I sent them a check about a week later. I never stole anything again.

Around the same time, one of my friends was caught stealing a toothbrush from Wal-Mart. They prosecuted her to the fullest extent of the law.