My buddy Mark was on the run for seven years, by which I mean he was a wanted felon. They were going to give him the maximum if he ever got picked up in Ohio, so he had to stick to the west coast. What, specifically, he’d done back east remains a mystery, but it’s common knowledge he was a spectacular thief.
Now, since some people get it twisted, I’m going to briefly explain the difference between deadbeats, cleptos, and real true thiefs.
Most tweaker deadbeats will flat out rob you of anything commonly considered valuable; one because they’re tweaking, and two because they weren’t raised with morals. You’ll usually catch them in the act, and they’ll get violent right away. These people are dangerous, scum of the earth.
Cleptos on the other hand, doesn’t matter how they were raised or what kind of situation they’re in, they’ll take random stuff, small stuff, the stuff you’d least expect, just to take it. Sad thing about them is it has nothing to do with money. Something inside them is just twisted to make them steal. If you ever catch a clepto going through your shit, they’ll deny it, and you’ll just have to wonder what’s going on inside their head.
Real true thiefs are another thing entirely. The thief’s whole life revolves around the getting of, and stashing away of loot. They’re naturally good at stealing as kids, and they figure out, with a little practice, that they can take anything they set their sights on. They aren’t clumsy, and they aren’t violent people by nature. When a thief steals it’s strategic, and they always get away with it until they don’t, and after they get caught it just teaches them to be sneakier. You can tell you’re dealing with a true, hardcore thief when they’ve got almost no family, no job to speak of, but yet they never seem to run out of cash.
Never trust a thief.
People say that for a reason.
But I need to say my buddy Mark was different.
Mark first went to prison right around the time I dropped out of college, and I didn’t see him again until 6 years later, after I’d gotten married and had a kid.
We were living in my wife’s uncle’s house in this stuck-up little college-town that used to a be a logging community. Nice place though. I’ve never been one to complain.
The house we were in had been built by her great-uncle back in ’76. It was much nicer than anything they build now. It had real solid walls, built-in shelving, and an entryway that you could actually get settled in before you were in the, like, main house. There was also a garage on the side, and a little mother in law cottage in the backyard.On weekends after chores, I had just enough time to skate, or work with the printing press.
That’s what I was doing when Mark showed up out of nowhere.
It was a crisp spring afternoon. The sun was already flirting with the idea of diving behind the hills. I had the door wide open, and a breeze was passing through town.
A fierce rumbling came down the driveway, and I wondered who bought a motorcycle.
He rolled right up to the garage, and let his machine idle for a moment before he shut it down. His head was down, like there was something important happening on the gas-tank. I didn’t recognize him at first. His head was buzzed. Brown t-shirt. Black jeans. Dirty running shoes. At first all I was thinking was, whoever just drove up to my house my driveway must be 6’2” and 220 pounds.
Mark looked up at me smiling.
“Hey, Ralph,” he said. “It’s good to see you.”
He had an eye patch over his left eye. That was new.