Without a Paddle

Fear was an emotion I lacked in those days. In the middle of a crime spree, cops on my trail, and a participant in a pursuit I would likely lose, I could escape it no longer. I remained calm though, and before the officer could have even completed the turn-around, I had scaled another one of the steep driveways in my car. Unless the pig’s cruiser had a moon-roof option there was no way he would be able to spot my car from the road below.

I sat, sweat drenched hands trembling with adrenaline, and waited on him to pass. Peering through my rear-view mirror for what seemed like an hour, he finally did just that. His lights were on, but the sound of the car’s siren never reached my ears. Before the pursuing officer left my view, I was quickly back down the driveway and headed the opposite direction. Was I going to escape unscathed?

Just as I gained some significant distance from my uniformed pursuer, I blew past his apparent backup–burglarizing houses in a canyon isn’t the wisest of locale choices. Expecting a barricade around every next bend, I chose to hide rather than flee; but hide where? Unexpectedly, I noticed T-intersection and maneuvered my way onto the adjoining street. It was a dead end but the last home on the left seemed an adequate conceal myself–there was a huge motor-home parked in the driveway.

I positioned myself on its far-side, and in a rare attempt at begging for the Lord’s mercy, waited. If there was a road-block the Boulder police would know I was trapped somewhere in the canyon. Fingers crossed, I began thumbing through the remainders of my ass-paper apartment locator magazine just to kill time. I could have used the missing pages.

It took nearly an hour before the cops exhausted all the other possibilities for my whereabouts. A fleet of of cops pulled up behind me in the driveway, and I knew it was all over. The officer exited his patrol car and I was greeted with a rather unpleasant tap to the window. I rolled it down, met his demeaning gaze, and prepared for the worst. He asked for my license, registration, and insurance. I owned them all, but not a one was in my possession. Paranoid about dropping some form of identification while in the commission of a crime, I had deemed carrying a wallet as an unnecessary risk.

I refused when asked for permission to allow a search of my person or vehicle. I had been informed that without being able to identify myself or provide proof of ownership for my vehicle, I had no right to deny them a search of any kind. Well, if you put it that way officer! I shut my mouth and stepped from the car. My eventual cpator went straight for the latch that popped the trunk. Inside was a single purse. He he picked and asked me whose it was. I lied and informed him that it belonged to a girlfriend. He replied by searching its contents. Jewelry was its only burden. Nothing else. Four to five houses worth of jewelry.

“Your girlfriend doesn’t carry a wallet or makeup? Just jewelry?” I nodded, and was placed in the back of the cop car while they completed their search. I guess my response seemed suspicious. The grins shared by the fraternity of swine as they congratulated one another was proof they had been waiting on me to slip up. I must have committed 25-30 burglaries in about a week and a half. Having their neighborhoods safe from my scumbaggery had definitely been a topic at their morning pow-wow.

The back of a police car was nothing new for me and I watched closely as they finished the search, rummaging through the entrails of my Honda like ravenous vultures. Nothing else of note was extracted other than a set of gloves I had been using. They were bagged and the officer who placed me in the car joined me shortly after. More questioning followed.

“You wanna tell me why you took a shit in that lady’s backyard? She was watching you the entire time. She called us after you tried opening her front door. You scared the hell out of her! We’re getting a chuckle out of it though.” Maybe I wasn’t as infamous as assumed. I decided to keep my mouth shut and just leaned back. Inside, I laughed at the irony of it all, and wondered if one of his cronies would have to collect the organic evidence. Little did I know, that shit ended up being the last “free” one I experienced for the next three years.

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Tagged as: Autobiography, blog, crime, writing