Reasons (#71)

I am, but I am NOT!

But I AM...I guess. How would you define a criminal?

Webster tells me I'm a criminal if I am guilty of a crime or have committed a crime. While the definition is obviously redundant, it's also a bit verbose, don't you think? Why not just write "everyone"? We have so many laws in our country, how could any one person spend an entire lifetime without fracturing at least a single little statute? Those fat cats in Washington create some ridiculous bills to pass around, to be voted in or out, that we don't even know exist, and all for the sole purpose of their own job security. Yes, ignorance is no excuse, and all that hogwash, but really. Is it conceivable to say that any of us has never broken a law, with or without intention to do so?

I didn't mean to do what I did. The truth is, I still don't know why I did it. I'm not an evil person. I pay my taxes and give money to charity. I like making people happy, anonymously, just for the fuzzies I feel inside. But I broke the law. With one irrational impulse, I commited one irrevocable act. Thus I am a criminal.

Two months one week and three days ago I was up late on the computer writing as usual. When I reached for another cigarette, I found that I had already smoked my last one. I dread running out of smokes half way through a manuscript. I generally make it a point to check my supplies before I sit down to write. If I have any question about making it through I either ration myself or go get another pack beforehand. (That's where it began. If I'd followed my ritual I wouldn't be in this predicament. Or if I'd listened to the doctor and quit smoking after my heart attack I wouldn't be in this predicament.) Either way, I couldn't suffer the constant nagging of a nicotine craving, and still meet deadline with a quality piece. I write best when my attention is undivided. 

As much as I detested the interruption I saved my work to disc, a consistent practice I chose to follow, and threw on my jeans to head around the corner to the Tom Thumb. I noticed that the digital display in my dodge read, "3:21" as I cranked the engine. I don't know that the time was significant. I have a habit of checking the clock when I'm driving because I always leave late and try to make up time on the road. Check the time, do some quick math, that's how long I have to get there. Except that for some reason I remember it. I can still see the green numbers glowing in the night, especially when I try to sleep.

I reached the store, had no trouble getting my usual space since I was the only customer, grabbed a crumpled five from the wad of cash that's always in my ashtray, and ran in.

"What do you mean you don't have any? I thought they were guaranteed?" Tom Thumb guarantees instock on all Marlboros. If they're out, they give you a coupon for a free pack. The catch is, you have to go to another Tom Thumb to get it...or wait for your flavor to come in. (Again...if only they had my brand. If only I had settled for a substitute. Unfortunately that night was a night to vary from the norm.)

I took my freebie coupon and got back in my truck. I turned up the radio since it was about another eight minutes to the next nearest store. I drove listening to commercials until I could see the glow of lights from the awning over the gas pumps down the street. Then the funky sound of Akon's latest started to thump. I like the song so much I bought the CD when it was released. Too embarrassed to sit in the parking lot, even empty, popping up and down with the music blaring, I drove right past the convenience store wailing, "Smack that! Out on the floor! Smack that! Give me some more!..."  I make it a practice to turn down the volume at stop lights or when pulling into parking lots. Dignity is very important to me. You never know who might pull up beside you. At thirty-one I'm too old to be caught acting like a teeny-bopper, although I enjoy it very much in private. I'd be mortified to face the clerks at the counter to buy cigarettes after entertaining them just outside their door.

I was on Blue Angel Parkway. It runs from the back gate of the Navy base in Pensacola toward Beulah, becoming more and more rural as it heads away from the base. There's a tiny road to the right that circles back around toward the city, which is where I intended to redirect myself once the song was over.

Looking back, so many things went askew that night. I can't understand how I missed the cumulation of extraordinary events...how did I miss my turn? why did I lean over and take my eyes off the road? what made me decide I had to listen to that song a second time? why, as often as I listen to it, did I put Akon in my CD binder instead of in my visor where I keep my favorites? why, when I saw the family walking in front of me, did I press the accelerator instead of the brake? why didn't I swerve to the left when there was no oncoming traffic? why didn't I stop?...

I'll tell you why! Why? Why! Because I wasn't the only creature of habit that ventured out of my assigned plane that night! Who in their right mind takes a baby out for a stroll down a dark country road in the middle of the night? Maybe the baby was keeping them awake. Maybe they hadn't had any quality time to spend together lately. Maybe he had a cramp in his leg and wanted some company while he walked it off. Maybe their car broke down and they had a stroller in the back. Maybe they had a fight, she took the kid and took off and he caught up with her.

The key here is that they weren't where they were supposed to be. And, yeah, neither was I. SO HOW COME I'M THE CRIMINAL???!!

I'm not about to suffer for their offense! Not in jail anyway...There must be some law, some curfew or something, that makes it illegal for people to do what they did! I won't suffer now. Not in jail anyway...I didn't suffer then. I drove to the freeway and took the Crestview exit fifty miles later.

At 4:30am in a small town, there's less traffic than in Pensacola. It was the nearest place where I knew the layout. Cracker Barrel on the corner, gas station, Subway sandwiches, car wash. Bingo! I washed their blood from my hands and my truck without a hitch or a witness!

I'll never tell anyone what we did. It was an accident. With one irrational impulse, together we commited one irrevocable act. We strayed outside our assigned planes like atoms jumping their orbits, and we collided. That's all!

There's a moral here. Never break ritual. I have learned my lesson well. It's nearing 8pm. It's time to lay myself down and try to sleep through the glare of the green illuminating numbers, "3,2,1". In the morning I will rise promptly again at 6am, bathe, eat eggs and toast and grits, and sit down to write a manuscript I call "Reasons" for the 72nd time. I will break for lunch at noon. I will hit the supermarket at exactly 2pm to buy more salad, more El Charitos Enchiladas Verdes TV dinners, and more eggs, toast, and grits. I will have dinner at exactly 6pm, conclude my story, and then lay down again at exactly 8pm. Varying from the norm is dangerous. I will stay vigilant, defending my ritual as long as I can. Today was as good a day as the last seventy.

I don't know how much longer I can keep the streets safe. The wad of cash in my ashtray has become a few bills, and I am out of toilet paper.